Full text of "P'an Ku"
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PAN
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ZditoKb Kale:
Fan Ku was the ancient Chinese, mythological God
of Creation. The Chinese believed that a person endowed
with artistic creativity had been possessed by the radiating
powers of P'an Ku.
The Editor-In-Chief
LIBRAE rnLLcQfr
STAFF
Editor - in - Chief: Gary A. Hogle
Assistant Editor: Roger F. Davies
Managing Editors: Karen Card Jim Suguitan
Art Editor: Deirdre Clemons Copy Editor: Warren Canon
Literary Board: Michael Cain, John Leatherwood, Frank Niswander
Faculty Advisory Committee: Patt Kyle, Chairman
Harry Crews Neda Hill
Faculty Sponsor: Helen Anne Easterly
We wish to express our sincere appreciation
for the aid extended by Dr. E. P. Lauderdale,
Dean of Instruction, and Dr. H. M. Ledbetter,
Chairman of the Division of Humanities.
TaMeci CwtteRfo
PAGE
THE HURRICANE, FLORIDA'S ANNUAL
ENIGMA - Dr. D. M. Stowers, Chairman of the
division of Social Studies 3
CRITIQUE OF CONRAD AIKEN'S
"SILENT SNOW, SECRET SNOW"
Miss Judy Rehm, Instructor in English 4
HALF FULL OR HALF EMPTY
James Brownley 5
LONG-RANGE EFFECT OF THE STUDENT NEA
Mrs. Lucile H. Glaze, Instructor in English 5
A HUMAN HOUSE
Eileen G. Cornelius 6
EDUCATION IN THE SOVIET UNION
Mr. Chester Handleman, Instructor in Social Studies 7
MAZATLAN-DURANGO HIGHWAY
Mr. Jarrett Pharr, Instructor in Spanish 8
Drawing by James Stover
THE ANATOMY OF A CHOICE
Mr. John D. Wells, Instructor in Philosophy 10
THE EXCHANGE
Gary A. Hogle 13
Drawing by Pam Smith
IT'LL NEVER HAPPEN TO YOU
Warren Canon 16
NO VACANCY
Muriel Gray Gagnon 18
Drawing by Richard Chmiel
DARKNESS AND RAIN
Tim Inserra 19
Drawing by Richard Chmiel
IT REMINDS ONE OF THE OPERA
Mr. Harry Crews, Instructor in English 20
Drawing by Pam Smith
THE RETURN
Connie Sue Carveth 21
Drawing by James Stover
PAGE
THE MANY VOICES OF ARTHUR MILLER
Lisa Ruden 22
MU
Gary A. Hogle 26
Drawing by Pam Smith
APOCALYPSE
Trent Evans 27
ANGEL'S HEART
Thomas Wright 27
DEDICATION: TO SUCCESS
Frank Brenner 27
A WARNING OR LOOK BEFORE YOU LEAP;
SEA OF LIFE - Susan Stevens 27
POEMS; GOD WIND
Mr. Jack Pawlawski, Instructor in Spanish 28
Drawing by Mr. David E. Pactor
DON'T TALK OF VIOLENCE AND DEATH
Virginia Krochmalny 28
POEMS; AN APOLOGY TO DYLAN THOMAS
Michael Cain 29
THE VIEW; STEPS TO THE TEMPLE; SONG 1963
Mr. Bill Kern, Instructor in Art 30
Drawing by Richard Chmiel
POEMS
Anonymous 31
THE NET; CONVERSION
Mrs. Jean Clark, Instructor in English 31
LA MISA DE AMOR - THE MASS OF LOVE
Translated by Mrs. Garcia Burdick, Instructor
in Spanish 32
O YE TIRED SOULS
James Suguitan 32
THE AQUA OF LOVE
David Chira 32
COVER bv David E. Pactor, Instructor in Art
THE HURRICANE, FLORIDA'S
ANNUAL ENIGMA
D. M. Stowers
Now that the end of the 1964 hurricane season is
approaching, we are warned by the United States Weather
Bureau that the 1965 season may be, if the prognostica-
tions are correct, even more intense than this year.
Although this weather phenomenon is recognized and
endured by the majority of Florida's population, relatively
little factual knowledge concerning the origin, develop-
ment and characteristics of this storm has actually been
assimilated by the public.
The technical definition of a hurricane may be simply
'a tropical windstorm in which the winds reach an excess
of seventy-four miles per hour.' This definition leaves
much to be desired in the way of a true picture of what
this phenomenon actually is. The tropical hurricane is
not the most powerful storm which affects the earth's
surface in regard to actual wind velocity; however, it is
by far the most damaging to life and property. The middle
latitude tornado, also a counter-clockwise circulation of
air, has generated winds in excess of five hundred miles
an hour. The damage of this storm area, however, is
usually less than one mile in width. Hurricanes are found
in various parts of the world and have been given many
endearing names. For example, in the Pacific area, where
they are called typhoons, these storms are referred to by
the Australians as the "willy-willies."1 Regardless of loca-
tion on the earth's surface or names given to these storms,
they possess the same cause of origin and characteristics.
In recent years, as you are aware, hurricanes in this
hemisphere have had feminine names. The first hurricane
of each season is given a feminine name beginning with
the letter 'A', the second with the letter 'B', etc. These
names are changed each year to avoid confusion.
In order to make this discussion meaningful, it will
be limited to information pertaining to those hurricanes
which affect only the southeastern United States and
adjacent areas. The origin or birthplace of hurricanes
occurs in areas close to the equator. Usually this is between
five and fifteen degrees latitude. They form during par-
ticular times of the year when causal elements are more
pronounced. In the West Indies region, for example,
almost eighty per cent of the hurricanes occur during the
months of August, September and October.2 This period
is generally considered the Florida season, although the
United States Weather Bureau extends its official season
for Florida into November.
It must honestly be stated that all of the factors that
trigger the formation of a hurricane are not known.
However, much specific information regarding their origin
has now been cataloged. Hurricanes always originate as
vortices (counter-clockwise whirls) within the above men-
tioned general equatorial zone. The vortices must occur
in this area in order to spawn a hurricane, and not directly
over the equator, as the Coriolis force produces the
cyclonic circulation characteristic of a hurricane.
In addition to these factors, there must be a suitable
wind arrangement to bring about vertical air motion which
1. Louis I. Battan. Science Study Series (Doubleday and Co., Inc.:
New York, 1961), p. 101.
2. George F. Taylor, Elementary Meteorology (Prentice Hall, Inc.:
New Jersey, 1961), p. 252.
will induce sufficient adiabatic cooling and induce con-
densation. Even with these factors plus condensation,
an easterly storm usually results instead of a hurricane.
However, if the energy derived from the condensation of
water vapor is sufficiently converted into enough kinetic
energy, the process of convection (rising air) is stimulated
and surrounding air is drawn inward, with a resultant
storm.
The formation of a hurricane may take place in the
brief span of a day or it may require as long as a week
to evolve. Usually it moves slowly in a westward direction
away from the equator. During this early period it will
not usually move more than a hundred or a hundred and
fifty miles a day.3 The further it ravels from the equator,
the greater forward speed is to be expected, unless some
other significant weather pattern abnormally affects it.
The rainfall associated with a hurricane is often
prodigious. The heaviest twenty-four hour rainfall on
record occurred at Baguio (Luzon) in the Philippines in
1941, when forty-six inches fell.4 The heaviest twenty-
four hour rainfall recorded in the United States resulted
from a hurricane at Taylor, Texas in 1921 and amounted
to twenty-three and eleven hundredths inches. Although
heavy precipitation usually accompanies this type of
tropical storm, the amount of rain differs significantly
with the size of the storm. As an example, Cleo, the
third hurricane of 1964, was considered a "dry" hurricane
and most observers agreed to this fact.
Barometric readings also vary significantly during the
life of a hurricane. Sea level pressures below twenty-
eight inches (948.2) are commonplace. The lowest offi-
cial reading made during an Atlantic hurricane was made
at Lower Matecumbe Key in Florida in 1935 when the
mercury dropped to twenty-six and thirty-five hundredths
inches (892.3 millibars). These low pressure gradients
have been known to trigger winds up to a measured
one hundred and eighty miles per hour (not including
tornado funnels ) .
One of the most interesting factors of the hurricane
is its "eye". Lack of knowledge relating to the hurricane
eye or center was undoubtedly responsible for the many
deaths due to hurricanes in previous years. The residents
of western Fort Lauderdale, Florida, experienced an oval
shaped eye or calm area during Cleo which lasted in some
areas for as long as eighty minutes. Normally the eye
averages about fifteen miles in diameter and is well de-
fined; however, some eyes have measured up to forty
miles in diameter in large storms. The winds of highest
velocity surround the eye edge and are most damaging
in the northeast quadrant. These winds around the cir-
cumference of the eye are commonly referred to as the
cloud wall.
Although wind damage occurs over a large area and
is frequently rather severe, the greatest damage and
danger is from water. Waves that develop in powerful
hurricanes are not only dangerous to shipping, but also
do extensive damage to the beaches and adjacent areas.
As the storm approaches land the danger to the lowlands
is usually expressed in terms of a "hurricane wave."5 In
an extensive storm, this hurricane wave may cause the
3. Louis J. Battan, Science Study Series (Doubleday and Co., Inc.:
New York, 1961), p. 105.
4. George F. Taylor, Elementary Meteorology (Prentice Hall, Inc.:
New Jersey, 1961), p. 255.
5. Ibid, p. 258.
water level to rise as much as twenty feet which will
produce widespread flooding and erosion. If the normal
tide is high then, the results are sometimes catastrophic.
Many advances in hurricane tracking and forecasting
have been made in the past twenty years. One of the
most significant is the use of specially equipped weather
planes which not only fly to and around the storm, but
are capable of flying right into the heart of it. The
measurements made on the spot by the instruments
aboard the plane have enabled the weathermen to more
accurately plot the storm, in regard to location, movement,
intensity, and future development.
The use of the term "hurricane backlash" appears
more frequently in recent years to describe the particular
weather phenomenon which occurs when the last of the
storm passes. Some of these accompanying factors of
weather are causing considerable concern among the
populace as well as the meteorologists themselves. One
aspect in particular of this backlash which was observed
very clearly during the passing of hurricane Isbell, was
the rather frequent occurrence of tornadoes. Most of the
heavy damage sustained in this storm was attributed to
this violent, counter-clockwise disturbance. Tornadoes
normally occur along the storm or squall line of a well
developed middle latitude cyclone and are due to the
formation of highly turbulent cumulonimbus clouds. These
clouds are set in motion primarily by the forced mixing
of two unlike air masses. The main avenue for the travel-
ing of the majority of tornadoes in the United States is
traditionally in the mid-west, although they have been
reported in all parts of the country, usually during a
change of season. The tropical hurricane is also capable,
because of its massive turbulence, of assembling the con-
ditions necessary to spawn a tornado. It is presently
impossible to forecast the actual occurrence and time for
this type of storm, but by observing the atmospheric
conditions the weather forecaster can warn inhabitants
of specific areas of the likelihood of such formations, in
sufficient time for them to make preparations.
In a tropical hurricane, as differentiated from a
cyclone, the sight of the large funnel approaching is
very difficult due to the storm conditions. Thus thev
apparently strike with practically no warning. The tor-
nado, although covering only a small area, is a vicious
storm with winds usually in excess of two hundred and
fifty miles per hour. Because of its severity, it is a killer
as well as a destroyer of property. A thorough study of
this phenomenon by the laymen would help immeasurably
to minimize the damage from such storms occurring in
conjunction with hurricanes.
The United States Weather Bureau has recently pub-
lished a report which warns us that the year 1965 may
prove to be an even more trying year for the residents
of Florida insofar as hurricanes are concerned. It was
this intelligent guess that prompted this writing.
The above attempt was not to present a complete
scientific discussion of the tropical hurricane, but to
emphasize the necessity of knowledge of this type of
storm through discussion of some of its important ele-
ments. Man may someday master the weather but this
time has not yet arrived.
CRITIQUE OF CONRAD AIKEN'S
"SILENT SNOW, SECRET SNOW"
Judy Rehm
Obviously the outhor of this short story does not want
us to have knowledge of a specific cause or reason for the
behavior pattern of a young boy's withdrawal from society,
but he is concerned with describing it to us in its progres-
sion so that we are to experience some of the horror of a
modern temperament. To the degree we are involved
daemonically, Aiken believes we enjoy the tastes of
another's secret as we might enjoy our own retreats into
an anti-social existence preferable to good parents, decent
living, and so-called interested neighbors. Our messen-
gers from the oracle of the U. S. Post Office bring us
news of our intimate affinity with obscurity and distrust,
disease and death each day during the seven days of
doomed delight similar to the period it once took an all-
loving and magnificent Creator to fashion the universe in
which those first people could enjoy the Garden of Eden.
"In the general laughter" to be heard in the halls of
learning our twelve year old hero does not share, for his
business is as serious as any aviator's "in heavenly seclu-
sion." That the earth wears "a belt, or a sash" may be a
comical matter for the teacher and other seemingly intel-
ligent folk, her students, but it is not a joke to realize
the world might just enjoy the knowledge and comfort
of a Mathew Arnold's "faith, like the folds of a bright
girdle furled." Even an anti-faith. This prospect Paul
Hasleman sees as simply conceived, eternally attractive,
if a little "foolish." On the morning of the first day of
anti-creation, the north temperate zone is obscured by
chilly remoteness, as if naturally effected by the first
snowfall of a winter season. It is a clearly conceived
miracle, unless he is to look down at the gleaming cobble-
stones on the town street. Between the second and the
sixth day the effect of this conception is gradually one
of more remoteness and snow, of less scenery of stones
and everyday sounds, so that on the seventh day he
looks upon his efforts and calls them pleasant. In fact,
its beauty is ineffable.
The only trouble with this new world is that no one
can live there. Perhaps, after all, the author implies the
home is the first place for love and education, for the
only grief Paul sees in this first welcomed change from
maid's housecleaning, clubs and social meetings and
"professional" occupations is "distressing . . . conflict, with
. . . father and mother." Educators are not expected ever
to be "with us" at really important moments, while their
facts and figures, demands of discipline and respect,
born of their even greater ignorance and restraints, bore
us and even encourage us to impulsive, absurd, yet
initially interesting solutions to the universal questions.
Ultimately escaping into solitary phantasms our hero finds
is "at whatever pain to others." More ethical references
than William Golding's image of "Lord of the Flies"
make Aiken's short story offer less physically engaging
characters, but the accusations for the horrors of human
nature are no less significant. A recent student paper
(Mrs. Eleanor West's) referred to "the beautiful torment"
Poe experienced in describing to us his own creation and
life images. On the other hand the teacher would attempt
to present a kind face to her charges, while the doctor,
the man of science in this narrative, undoubtedly has some
awareness as well of another's feelings, but not of a type
to make a human difference in the final outcome.
Are the answers really in having our eyes examined
clinically or morally? Morality as that which we do to
one another. The present story reflects a loss of identity
in the personality of the youth, in the whole race, the
milieu of the artist and his audience. However, not even
Jesus had a "personality," yet was blessed enough, while
sometimes suffering, by love and important business. The
modern age of science is likewise hypocritical and con-
fused, cold and uninteresting, immoral and amoral, its
visions chosen blindness and despair, without sense of
time and place.
HALF FULL OR HALF EMPTY
James Brownley
Someone once defined an optimist as one who says
his cup is half full while a pessimist is one who claims
his cup is half empty. Probably no one is strictly an
optimist or a pessimist. But each one of us possesses
characteristics which classify our personalities one way
or the other.
A true optimist does not believe that all is for the
best in this best of all possible worlds. He realizes
the horrors and difficulties of life, but refuses to regard
humanity's condition as terrible. A pessimist, however,
is of the opinion that reality is essentially evil. He is
inclined to put the least favorable construction upon
action and happenings.
An optimist, in the true sense, believes that it is
possible to better his life and, in a general way, humanity's
life. He recognizes the progress that has been made in
this direction. Man has, in many ways, overcome nature.
His command of things is far greater than it used to be.
The pessimist sees these inventions used only for war,
and believes that humanity is on the road to self-destruc-
tion. The optimist does not believe this is necessarily so
because his optimism is largely a product of faith in
human nature.
An optimist's natural reaction to a circumstance is
to seek what good there may be in it rather than what
evil it may bring. A pessimist's despair engenders mis-
fortune and failure. An optimist reasons that if he is
going to fall, he will fall. If he believes that there is
nothing he can do about his country's affairs then there
is nothing he can do. He sees that he can make life
fair or turbulent, primarily within himself. Pessimism
has a depressing effect. If a pessimist believes his neighbor
to be dishonest and shows his distrust, he may make him
distrustful and dishonest.
The pessimist confront us with the question of
whether or not we believe that confidence in mankind,
in life, is wisdom. He then cites facts which bring some
frigrtful disappointments. The optimist confesses that
he has had some great disappointments. But he has
always known that wicked people existed. He has known
that in times of disaster crowds become deranged and
bestial. He knows of wars with their sweeping death
and devastation. But the optimist's beliefs consist solely
in the fact that he believes he has a certain influence upon
events, and even if he must suffer misfortune, he can
overcome it by his manner of enduring it. While the
pessimist looks for the dark in the world, the optimist
seeks the light by loving the fine people about him, avoid-
ing the wicked, rejoicing in good, enduring evil and
remembering to forget.
LONG-RANGE EFFECT OF THE
STUDENT NEA
Mrs. Lucile H. Glaze
What is teaching? To one kind of person, teaching is
merely a job, whose remuneration affords him the means
by which he can enjoy his private life in the way he
chooses, constructive or otherwise, just as to some, friend-
ship means feigning an admiration for a person or his
accomplishments in order to us the recipient — as one
would chessmen — for his own selfish promotion or gain.
When a man comes to the end of his life, there can be a
tremendous difference in how he evaluates his accomplish-
ments. Beowulf, having ruled his people well for fifty
years, found it not so difficult to "quit" this world and the
kinddom he had ruled so long in the Old English period;
but Everyman of the old morality play Everyman, written
around 1500 by an unknown author, was ashamed of
having sought unworthy companions and wished that he
had performed more good deeds, when Death approached
to inform him that he had to make a pilgrimage to his
final reckoning. Teaching is striving to effect desirable,
permanent changes among the students, and the person
who has been instrumental in producing these changes
will have lived a rewarding life.
The Student NEA gives opportunities for its
members to understand the difference between "keeping
school" and teaching. Bigge and Hunt in Psychological
Foundations of Education show quite a difference be-
tween the two terms. With frank, constructive criticism
from each other and their advisor, information from their
professional literature, and gems of knowledge gleaned
from panels, films, and lectures, these future educators
realize that success in their chosen field means they will
have much responsibility to assume and must willingly,
enthusiastically, sincerely, and cooperatively give of both
time and effort. For their endeavors, besides the mone-
tary reward, which is continuously improving largely be-
cause of the efforts of the professional organizations, these
young people can feel proud of making a worthwhile
contribution to the future generations. There will be a
long-range effect on their students and on themselves;
they will have respect for themselves in knowing their
lives have not been in vain.
More and better students are choosing teaching as
their profession; each year it is increasingly more difficult
to make a final decision as to whom the award for out-
standing service should be given on Recognition Night.
Leadership is stressed; there is always the status leader,
but it is encouraging to recognize the increasing number
of emerging ones. Improvement, whichever type it may
be, is stressed. There is no such thing in this changing
world of remaining static or becoming complacent in one's
position because, among the many duties of the teacher,
he is also expected to perform many of the functions
that the parents and the community once assumed. The
members of the Student NEA have accepted this chal-
lenge as is evidenced by their roles on the local as well
as the state level; they have accepted their responsibilities
as well as their honors. They have the respect and admira-
tion from others in the state because of their leadership
ability and high degree of integrity displayed at state
conferences and conventions. Evidence of this is one of
the greatest rewards for the sponsor.
Have the members accepted the theme of the
Student Florida Education Association: "Make Things
Happen for You"? Has the training in the Broward Chap-
ter of the Student NEA reached beyond graduation from
the Junior College of Broward County? Has there been
improvement? From sixteen members in 1960, the first
year of the college's existence, the number reached fifty-
seven last year; this year the number is expected to rise
to one hundred. However, it is not the quantitative but
the qualitative nature that is the prime concern. A former
vice-president is now president of the Student FEA at the
University of South Florida; the president of this chapter
last year is now president of the chapter at Florida State
University and is also secretary of the state officers; for-
mer members are making an effort to organize a chapter
at Florida Atlantic University; indirectly we are associ-
ated with the president of the chapter at Stetson Univer-
sity; the current president of the Broward chapter is a
junior member of the executive council of the state. I
sincerely believe that there will be a very few members
of the Broward Chapter of the Student NEA who will
"keep school" but many who will teach.
The following letters from former members and the
current president of the Student NEA reflect the long-
range effect of the organization:
I am indebted to the Junior College of Broward
County Chapter of the Student NEA for enabling me
to develop the leadership skills necessary in assum-
ing the responsibility of president of the University
of South Florida chapter. It taught me the organiza-
tional structure and background and made me aware
of the attitudes necessary for personal and profes-
sional growth. I also learned to meet and speak
before groups of people with confidence. The Brow-
ard chapter is doing an excellent job of providing
pre-professional experiences, and I shall always be
grateful for the effect it had on me as a future
teacher. Sarajean McArthur, President
Student Florida Education Association
The University of South Florida
My experience as president of the Student Na-
tional Education Association at the Junior College of
Broward County helped me in numerous ways. There
were the facts — the knowledge I received about
the many facets of "professional" teaching. There
were the moments of achievement — the feeling of
a job well-done. But of far more importance than
these, there were the relationships that grew between
people. Through dealing with many different people,
I learned how to be sensitive to the individuality of
each person. I learned to respect and love people
for what they were rather than what I felt they
should be. I learned to view human situations real-
istically; and often, I became aware of ways I could
make them more ideal. Without human interaction,
conflict and cooperation, life could not continue as
it is today. Student NEA taught me much about life
by helping me to understand the nature and value
of human relationships.
Barbara Adamson, President
Student Florida Education Association
Florida State University
Recording Secretary, State SFEA
Looking back on my past experiences of being
an officer, president, and member of the Student
NEA at the Junior College of Broward County, I
can truthfully say the experience greatly profited me.
It enabled me to have a better concept of the teach-
ing profession and what it means to be a professional
person. This in turn gave me a background for want-
ing to continue in my professional organization in
upper division here at Florida Atlantic University,
where we are presently in the process of organizing
a club and awaiting its charter. I am looking for-
ward to being one of its first members.
Sharon Brown, Student
Florida Atlantic University
I feel my presidency is similar to an explorer
surveying the many mountains and valleys of educa-
tion. I can lead, observe, speak out publicly and
associate with leaders from all levels, there being
only one limitation to the experiences offered to me
as a pre-educator, my own quest. I should like to
thank all the people at the Junior College of Broward
County and throughout the state of Florida for the
faith that they have bestowed in me.
Glen Legan, President
Student National Education Association
Junior College of Broward County
Junior Member of the Executive Council,
State SFEA
A HUMAN HOUSE
Eileen G. Cornelius
The foundation of a relationship between two people
should be as strong as the foundation which is needed to
support a house. If a house is to remain in its best con-
dition, a strong and sturdy foundation is necessary. A
house built incorrectly could stand for a year or more; but
in time, because its base is weak, the house would shift,
causing the walls to crack and the plaster to chip. When
the relationship between two people is established on a
false basis, or when the trust between them is lost, the
"walls" of their friendship will soon "crack" and their
mutual regard for each other will peel away.
Similar backgrounds of the hitherto mentioned people
may be as the bricks in a foundation. The common inter-
ests shared between them and the reciprocal affection
felt by them, may be as the mortar which holds the bricks
together. The more bricks and the more mortar a founda-
tion contains, the stronger the house will be. If the expe-
riences, training, and education of these two individuals
have a marked likeness in their course of development,
if their interests are somewhat parallel, their relationship
will last longer and become deeper.
If the base of a foundation is constructed with all
bricks and no mortar or with all mortar and no bricks,
the house will not stand for any reasonable length of time.
If an affinity is maintained on the basis of only one con-
cern, this relationship will cease to be because this one
regard could not compensate for the many other difficul-
ties that may arise in the lifetime of two people. This
bond between them would be as a house built on sand.
It would be inferior in strength — incapable of coping
with destructive forces. So, too, a friendship built on a
"foundation of sand" would be unable to endure strain
or pressure.
If a person depends entirely upon the love or com-
panionship of another, if he or she has no other interest
but that of this companion or loved one, he will be as a
house built en one piling. If this piling were to collapse
under the strain of the house, the structure would crum-
6
ble. But if a house were built on many small pilings, and
one of these pilings were to break away, the house would
remain standing. Each person must have many interests,
many friends on which he can depend. If his life revolves
around one person or one thing, and he loses this, he too
will "crumble."
Although the actual materials used in the construc-
tion of a house and in the construction of a friendship
are completely different, the basic requirements are very
similar. Each must have a strong foundation coupled
with excellent workmanship; together they each form a
lasting structure.
EDUCATION IN THE SOVIET UNION
Chester Handleman
Since 1957, when the first successful "Sputnik" was
launched, the Soviet school system has been a subject of
much study by foreign countries, particularly the United
States. Some Americans have tended to discredit the
Soviet educational system as one only good for developing
"robot technicians" suitable for a dictatorship. At the
other extreme, we find such men as Admiral Hyman Rick-
over, the "father" of the nuclear submarine, who finds
much to be admired in Soviet school programs. He points
to the fact that the Soviets outproduce the United States
in a better than two to one ratio in the number of scien-
tists and engineers produced annually. It may easily be
argued that perhaps Russia, still not so highly developed
industrially as the United States, temporarily needs more
scientists and engineers than we do. But this is not the
complete answer, since we have long been trying to in-
crease substantially our output of engineering and techno-
logical students with apparently little success.
Let us briefly describe some of the techniques and
programs used in the Soviet educational system. Perhaps
we shall find that it has as many flaws in it, from our
viewpoint at least, as successes. We in the United States
should learn to admire its good features and recognize the
poor ones.
Although the Soviet educational system is and has
been in a state of flux since World War II, it can be said
that some Russian children attend a nursery-kindergarten
program for varying periods of time to the age of five or
six. We say "some" since only a relatively small number
are fortunate enough to attend these state schools, usually
located in the major cities. On a visit to the U.S.S.R. in
the summer of 1964, I was able to see two of these kinder-
gartens in Moscow. Many mothers who work for state
enterprises of various kinds are able to deposit their
youngsters in such institutions daily, where they are in
the care of apparently competent teachers. It should not
be forgotten, however, that the mothers usually hold
down a state job; it is not, as is sometimes true in the
United States, so that she can amuse herself on the golf
course or at the bridge table.
The two "model" kindergartens we visited seemed
quite adequate and comparable to some of our public
kindergartens. However, there were two differences: the
Russian toddlers were often three and four years old, and
the kindergartens are not located in a part of the elem-
entary school buildings as is usually the case in the United
States. Rather, they are separate entities, with their own
faculty and staff. The kindergartens we saw had about
eight children in each.
At the age of seven the Russian child is ordinarily
enrolled in a "seven-year", "eight-year" or "ten-year"
general school. Until 1958 these schools were either
"seven-year" or "ten-year" ones. The former were more
general in rural areas and the latter in urban communities.
Also, in some instances, certain urban pupils attended
"seven-year" schools if they were not "academically in-
clined." Since 1958, however, Khrushchev decided that
ten years of schooling without practical experience was
too theoretical an approach for the needs of the Soviet
state and its industrial and agricultural programs. Be-
sides, the early introduction of a work program was for
the purpose of teaching the student that work and study
should go hand-in-hand. Therefore, in the last few years
many of the "ten-year" schools have been reduced to
eight years.
At the present time, less than twenty per cent of
the "ten-year" or "eight-year" school graduates go on
to some form of higher education immediately upon gra-
duation; ostensibly, only those passing their examinations
with the highest grades. The majority go to work for
two or three years, usually in state industrial and agri-
cultural enterprises. At this time some students follow
on-the-job training programs, which are usually a part
of the factory system in which they work. Edmund J.
King says:
Once, all obtaining middle school certificates
could enter higher education. More recently, only
gold medalists with outstanding results could be sure
of admittance. Now even these prodigies have to
submit to tests and interviews. Those chosen imme-
diately for universities and higher institutions are at
the top 20 per cent of an already selective group.
The 1958 reform law required all others (i. e. 80 per
cent of the academic 18 year old graduates) to take
jobs of any sort for two years before entering some
form of higher education.1
So it can be seen that only a very selective group of
secondary school graduates have a chance to go on to
the university or to special institutes. A less selective
group, but still only a minority of the secondary school
graduates, have the opportunity to attend a "technicum"
after about two or three years of work. Often this latter
group attend on a part-time basis in the evening, or by
correspondence courses. Technicums usually offer a two
or three year program in what we might call technology,
although the term is much broader than the one implied
by our word. This program has sometimes been com-
pared with an American trade school, or, on its higher
level, with a technology or "terminal" program in our
American junior college. The United States Department
of Health, Education, and Welfare describes the Soviet
Technicums as follows:
The Technicum is organized to offer specialized
instruction for particular kinds of work. Thus there
are Technicums for the power industry, transporta-
tion, communications, printing machines, book bind-
ing, automatic assembly machines, and planning for
industry. But courses such as history of the U.S.S.R.,
Russian Language and Literature, mathematics,
physics, foreign languages, mechanical drawing, tools
and machines, and others are also offered.2
About 2,000,000 Soviet students attend these Tech-
nicums after their two or three year work periods, often
on a part-time basis. They obviously form the backbone
1. King, Edmund J., King's College, University of London, Other
Schools and Ours; revised ed.; Holt, Rinehart, and Winston; 1963.
2. U. S. Department of Health, Education, and Welfare, Office of
Education; Soviet Commitment to Education; 1959.
of the middle echelon of Soviet industrial and agricultural
workers. Although most of the graduates of Technicums
go to work in the industry for which they have been
trained, top students may sometimes continue their educa-
tion at the higher institutes after three years of work
experience. But at the present time there are few open-
ings available to them at the institutes on a full-time basis.
Higher education is usually offered in the university
and in the specialized institutes. "In 1958 there were
1, 178,000 full-time students, 127,000 part-time students,
and 756,000 correspondence students in higher educa-
tion."3 This is less than half the number in the various
higher educational institutions in the United States. "At
present about 57 per cent of the students in the U.S.S.R.
are studying full time; the others part time and through
correspondence."4
Students are admitted to the university by examina-
tion. Only one in four is successful. It is important to
realize that examinations are held in a certain subject
for admission to the universities and higher institutes only
if places in that subject (chemistry, for example) in a
particular institution of higher education are available.
Moscow and Leningrad Universities have the greatest
prestige and have the highest entrance requirements.
Actually, there are about 660 institutions of higher educa-
tion in the U.S.S.R. By far the largest number of openings
for students are in the natural sciences and mathematics.
Relatively few openings are available in the humanities
and in the social sciences, although a fair number are
available in foreign languages. Consequently, the exam-
ination grade requirements for admission in these fields
are extremely high.
When an Americain hears about the U.S.S.R.'s
"paying" its students to attend a university, he must be
sure that he understands what this means. The compe-
tition to enter a university in the Soviet Union is very
keen. Only those receiving the very highest grades on
entrance examinations obtain a stipend sufficient to take
care of their room, board, and fees. The majority of stu-
dents studying beyond the middle school level attend
Technicums after a work experience, often on a part-time
or correspondence basis. Even those in higher education
are often given only a work-study program.
While it is true that Russia has many students in the
natural sciences and engineering, the United States has
a far larger proportion of its students in full-time higher
education programs. In our country the student can
choose his field; in the U.S.S.R. he is limited in his choice
to the needs of the state (number of openings available
in certain fields).
It is possible that the United States could improve its
educational standards by requiring more "solid academic
subjects" for graduation, particularly on the secondary
level. The U.S.S.R.'s "general school," for example,
requires several years of chemistry, physics, mathematics,
their equivalent of history and social science, Russian,
and foreign languages. We should evaluate this program
and consider any part of it that might be appropriate for
our educational system. On the other hand, the basic
aim of Soviet education is for the benefit of the state;
the individual's position in the educational system is only
a poor second. In a democratic country such as ours, we
can hardly admire this approach; for our objectives are
so different from those of the U.S.S.R.
3. Ibid.
4. Ibid.
MAZATLAN - DURANGO HIGHWAY
Jarrett Pharr
Straight down into infinity!
The huge bus slowly began gathering momentum
after its arduous climb up the mountain and the long
drive along the plateau. It picked up speed as it plunged
down the road toward the small dot of a valley town,
almost invisible below. Just as the vehicle whipped around
a sharp curve the bus occupants gasped audibly at the
sight before them. A Mexican worker, waving his arms
wildly, was frantically trying to stop the bus. The huge
vehicle was rushing toward a landslide that had dumped
rock, trees and mud over the mountain road. The driver
wrestled the bus to a stop only inches before it would
have plowed into the debris.
This slide had occurred several days previously and
enough space had been cleared to allow a slow, careful
passage through. No one on the bus seemed to be in a
hurry so they stopped for a short while and watched the
road crew at work. Drivers of small road scrapers
nervelessly pushed dirt and rock up to the edge of the
bottomless abyss. The Mexicans stamped their brakes
only when they seemed certain to plunge over the preci-
pice. The drop down was almost endless. If brakes failed
the driver's wait for a terrifying death would have seemed
long than the trip that had brought the passengers to this
out of the way section of Mexico.
The group had headed northwest from Guadalajara
towards the Pacific coastal town of Mazatlan. The first
stop on the way was at well known Tequila. This town
bears the same name as the national drink of Mexico.
Tequila, the drinking kind, is a fermented cactus beverage
that goes back to Toltec times. Legend states that an
Indian maiden first discovered the method of extracting
and fermenting the maguey cactus juice. The reigning
Toltec chieftain selected her in marriage as a reward.
The Toltecs supposedly reveled in this new found novelty
and started drinking their way down the brimstone path.
This degradation enabled the fierce Chichimecas and
Aztecs to eventually defeat them.
Some people swear that drinking the modern version
is similar to swallowing ground up pepper sauce and
getting kicked by a mule simultaneously. Mexican college
students have a ritual that goes with their drinking parties.
They drink out of the bottle and flip a pinch of salt
off the side of their hand into their mouth. They also
like just a taste of lemon. After the bottle is emptied
they hold their hand over the neck of the bottle and rub
its side to create heat inside. They then light a match
and watch the blue flame shoot up as they light the
escaping fumes.
The next stop was Tepic, a celebrated Indian town
where Indians still gather for interesting and colorful
festivals. Between Tepic and Mazatlan there is an ex-
tremely interesting stretch of road that goes for miles
through a red, lava-colored countryside. It is easy to
imagine the giant stream of searing molten lava stream-
ing down the mountainside on its path to the hissing sea.
Rural people boarded the bus from time to time
carying almost everything imaginable. One Indian lady
held tight to a portable sewing machine. A man brought
a box with holes cut in the side to let in air. Unfortun-
ately, it also let out the sickening odor of chickens. This
odor mingled with the occasional belches of a man drink-
ing heavily from a bottle of rot-gut tequila. As night
came on an elderly lady asked the driver to stop so that
she could use the bathroom. The fact that no building
was visible didn't seem to disturb her in the least. She
went off into the low bushes to the driver's cheerful shout
to watch out for serpientes.
Everyone was happy and there was considerable
flirting going on between a group of three young farm
workers and a pretty young Mexican girl. The boys
shouted remarks that would be considered vulger in some
parts of the world but were accepted here without a bat
of the eye. Three middle aged women opened up the
bags of food they were carrying and proceeded to enjoy
a hearty meal. They ended their picnic with succulent
cactus pears prepared to a red tenderness that made them
look delicious. They ate fruit and seed together. Some
Americans who accepted their friendly offer of fruit were
soon looking for a way to unobtrusively spit out the
thousands of seed that the fruit contained. The bus con-
tinued its rapid trek by whipping up and down valleys
and around curves at a breakneck pace. Sometimes an-
other bus or a tractor-trailer toiling laboriously up hill
on the wrong side of the road managed to get out of the
way only moments before the bus thundered down on
them. The driver made the sign of the cross and contin-
ued headlong down the road until reaching Mazatlan.
The city of Mazatlan on the Pacific coast of Mexico
offered a pleasant stop for the harried tourists. It is an
old port city that attracts many Mexican and numerous
American tourists. Mexicans and Americans alike call it
"the poor man's Acapulco" due to the reasonable prices
that one pays for his resort living here. After relaxing on
the beach and seeing the sights of Mazatlan for a few
days it was time for the travelers to think about one of
the most, if not the most, exciting drives in Mexico. This
is the highway between Mazatlan and Durango, Mexico.
Just imagine for a moment, if you can, the Skyline
Drive of Virginia doubled in altitude. This will give you
some concept of this ride through Mexico. Few parts of
the world can offer more breath-taking or awe-inspiring,
majestic splendor than that which greets the traveler
between these cities.
From the hot Pacific coast there is a constant climb
until the weather is so cold that a person is uncomfortable
without a coat and even enjoys a blanket or sarape.
Along the climb one occasionally sees a small house
or store with small dark eyes staring out from adobe
doorways. Corn grows along hillsides so steep that it
doesn't look possible to cultivate the plants, much less
keep it from washing away in torrential rain storms.
Mexican trucks park along the road to give the
motors a chance to cool or to give themselves a chance
to eat their frijoles alongside small waterfalls streaming
out of the mountains above. After reaching the plateau
there is a drive that stays on the top or near the top for
about sixty-five miles. This region is totally unlike any-
thing that one expects to find in Mexico. It is a lumber
country with miles and miles of north country trees.
Mexicans who work the lumber mills are different from
their cousins of the lands below. Many of them are much
paler and do not seem to have as much Indian blood.
Their aquiline noses resemble the hardy Basques.
The people here live in extremely fascinating towns.
They build their houses of unpainted, raw looking lumber.
Row after row of these small, one room houses constitute
the towns along this stretch and form a srikingly unforget-
table picture as they spread out along the mountain top.
All the local residents who boarded the bus were
excited about the great amount of rain they had been
experiencing and the landslides that had resulted from
excess water. The mountain residents had been isolated
for weeks at a time. Their reference to landslides and the
passengers' recent score made everyone somewhat exhiliar-
atd as they sat watching the road crew play with death.
It would be good to get down out of the cloud area
onto level ground.
Past the landslide area and down the mountains the
country eventually turned once agailn into the cactus and
arid country associated with Northern Mexico. It was
natural for them to think of westerns and the "Durango
Kid" after getting to the more level regions, but both
of these seemed a little pale in comparison to the road
crew on the Mazatlan-Durango highway of Northewstern
Mexico. The bus riders who were seeing this road for
the first time knew they would never forget its inspiring
beauty and grandeur.
THE ANATOMY OF A CHOICE
John D. Wells
So you've decided to go to college! You've decided
to join some 2100 other young people who have also
decided to enroll at the Junior College of Broward County
this fall. In doing so, you have committed yourself to a
course of action that in many ways has paralleled the
actions of those 2100 other students. You have considered
what appeared to you to be the alternative courses of
action upon high school graduation, and you have chosen
to go to college. This created the subsequent problem
of which college to attend. For whatever reasons, you
have chosen the Junior College of Broward County; you
have applied for admission; you have submitted your high
school transcript, your picture, an affidavit of residency
and several other documents; you have taken tests; you
have registered.
Perhaps you have begun to realize that an important
facet of going to college is the making of decisions. Pos-
sibly the most educationally influential aspect of going
to college is that college forces you to make decisions
at all levels of significance — from the flip-of-the-coin
level to the search-of-oneself-and-motives type of decision.
Two of the major functions of these decision-situations are
( 1 ) that through decisions you come to grips with your-
self which enable you to understand your own strengths
and weaknesses, and (2) that you learn to recognize
the level and range of significance of decision-making
situations.
The former function involves the revealing of your-
self to yourself through decision-situations. These decision-
situations may provide what the matador calls moments
of truth. Moments of truth are fleeting moments when
you may catch glimpses of yourself briefly emerging from
the cloak of self-deception in times of crisis, when decision
can no longer be postponed. Most decisions are not at
the moment-of-truth level of significance, but are applica-
tions of other decision-commitments that are at this level.
To the existentialist, these decisions are acts of self-crea-
tion in that they determine what concepts and values
comprise the essence of self; they are free acts constitut-
ing the continuous creation of self. Though the existen-
tialist may be overstating the significance of choices, there
can be little doubt that the decisions to commit yourself
to certain ideas and actions, rather than to others, is a
fundamental factor in determining what your education
will be. Whether the decisions are what your major will
be, what your elective courses will be, or what the
ideas that your choose to regard as true will be, they
draw the limits of your education. Such is the impact
of the decisions you make.
Some decisions are more significant than others be-
cause they generate other decision-situations or sequences
of decision-situations. The decision to go to college is
more significant than the decision of which college to
attend. The reason for this is that the overall decision
to go to college generates the decision-situation of having
to choose a college. The significance of a decision is
determined by its influence upon future decisions and
actions. Thus, the significance of a decision is its influ-
ence exterted within a certain range and at various levels.
A decision has influence within a spatio-temporal range;
a decision has influence at the levels of action, language,
and concept.
The ability to recognize the level and range of signi-
ficance of decisions is important in avoiding and resolving
conflicts of commitment. The level of significance is
determined by whether the commitments resulting from
the decisions will serve as criteria for making other de-
scisions. For example, the decision to major in electrical
engineering will serve first as a criterion in determining
which courses are no longer subject to choice, but to
which we are committed by university curriculum require-
ments, and second as a criterion in deciding which elective
courses will be chosen. In the latter case, the earlier
commitment to an electrical engineering major may not
be the only criterion, but it will serve as one influence
upon your choice of electives. The range of significance
refers to the spatial and temporal scope or limits of the
commitment resulting from a decision. For instance, the
decision to go to a movie rather than somewhere else
produces a commitment that rules out other alernatives
for a time. Thus, a commitment has a spatio-temporal
scope; this is its range of significance. Recognizing the
level and range of significance that may result from a
decision enables you to avoid clashes of commitment. It
is obvious that when you are faced with the alternative
commitment of going to a concert in Miami or to a movie
in Fort Lauderdale during a given evening, you cannot
choose both. These alternatives are mutually exclusive
or incompatible due to physical limitations. However,
whenever alternative commitments are mutually exclusive
or incompatible due to linguistic or conceptual limita-
tions, the conflict of commitment is not so obvious. Many
conflicts can be avoided by understanding the structure
and implications of decision-situations and the pitfalls
that most often lead to confusion and conflict.
Because of the importance of an individual's decis-
ions in determining what his education will be, it seems
worthwhile to examine the anatomy of a choice. To
understand the anatomy of a choice you must be aware
of the general features of choices as well as the specific
characteristics of the particular decision-situation.
A decision results in a commitment at three different
levels: action, language, and concept. One level of com-
mitment is the physical level — that is, commitment to a
course of action, or a pattern of behavior, or a type of
conduct. A second level of commitment is at the linguistic
level. Commitment at the linguistic level involves a
commitment to use a certain group of words or phrases
to represent two things: a group of actions and a concept.
A group of words or phrases is selected to refer to a
course of action to which you are committed. For example,
if you choose to perform a series of actions that you call
"taking biologv," the series of actions will involve regis-
tering for the course, attending class, taking notes, attend-
ing labs, taking tests, and other similar actions that extend
over a span of time; whereas, your linguistic commitment
to the phrase "taking biology" mav be employed within
that time span to describe what you are doing, whether
you happen to be working on biology or not. You may
be at the moment "studying a history assignment," but
you are still "taking biology." The commitment to action
is intermittent in that you are only actively "taking
biology" while you are performing some action related
to this class and its assignments, but the linguistic com-
10
mitment is continuous until such time as you terminate
your commitment at the physical level by completing the
course or withdrawing from it. It is important to
distinguish between commitment to action and linguistic
commitment.
In addition to its reference to action, linguistic com-
mitment has a second dimension that should be noted.
This second dimension is the commitment to the same
group of words or phrases which you may use to refer
to your concept of what is involved physically and men-
tally in "taking biology." Commitment at the linguistic
level is commitment to a group of words or phrases as
meaning, describing, or standing for a group of actions
that you conceive as being the object of your commitment.
The third level of commitment is the level of con-
cepts or ideas. At the time of the decision, you have
a concept of that to which you are committing yourself.
You have some concept of what "taking biology" involves,
which includes some idea of what "biology" is. Perhaps
this concept is the result of talking with students who
are "taking biology" or have "taken" it, and your having
previously "taken" high school biology. Your concept of
"taking biology" may approximate or may be far afield
from what "taking biology" actually involves.
At the conceptual level, one may also distinguish
between knowledge concepts and value concepts. Knowl-
edge concepts are related to other knowledge concepts or
to value concepts, but value concepts are related directly
to the individual by virtue of commitment. When a
knowledge concept becomes the object of commitment,
it becomes a value concept, or assumes the characteristic
of a value concept, or generates a value field resembling
a magnetic field. For example, if your commitment is
to the knowledge concepts of biology, these concepts
become for you value concepts, or this commitment
generates a value field, which reinforces that commitment
and more strongly motivates you to fulfill that commit-
ment. The more remote or indirect the relation between
you and the knowledge concept, the less significant the
commitment becomes.
Perhaps another way of stating this is that commit-
ment creates, generates, or establishes a "climate of
values," the range of which coincides with the range of
significance of the commitment. This "climate of values"
or "value field" consists of "elements" or "lines" of value
forces. These "elements" or "lines of value forces" estab-
lish a unique relationship between the individual and the
object of commitment such that self-deception is excluded
for the range of the commitment. The point is that the
commitment resulting from a choice eliminates self-decep-
tion within the range of significance of that commitment.
No philosophy nor political theory nor concept of his-
tory nor philosophy of redigion nor scientific thery that is
seriously advanced advocates self-deception. No theory
of knowledge, even the most restrictive skepticism, sup-
ports a program of self-deception. Though the skeptic
claims that knowledge is impossible because the whole
spectrum of human experience is deceptive, he urges
that man honestly face this human situation. Not even
the ethical theories that portray successful living as the
ability to weave a web of deceit and fraud maintain that
the individual shall become a victim of his own devices
of deceit. The fact that commitment rejects self-deception
becomes increasingly clear the more fully you understand
the nature of a commitment and its range of significance.
The problem of attaining a clear understanding of
your commitments is difficult even at the level of action,
but becomes more complex as the significance of the
commitments increases. The problem becomes increasingly
complicated when that commitment is to other persons.
Friendship, love, organizations with a "common purpose,"
and alliances are examples of commitments to other peo-
ple. Most of your more significant commitments are to,
or include, other people. The crux of the problem pro-
duced in making commitments to other persons involves
the understanding of their commitments. You must judge
their commitments from what they do and what they
say; the reliability of their actions depends upon how
clearly they understand their own commitments. Once
you understand, at least to your own satisfaction, the
nature of another person's commitments within a certain
range, you may then make commitments involving that
other person but only within that range. As you revise
your commitments and the other person revises his com-
mitments, the commitment between you and the other
person may fade and dissolve without specific termina-
tion. Some of your high school friendships may terminate
in this way. In other instances you may realize that your
understanding of the other person's commitments was
drastically inaccurate and may abruptly revise or terminate
your commitment to him.
Now let us return to your decision to "go to college"
and examine some common pitfalls to avoid in under-
standing the nature of this commitment. One common
source of misunderstanding is at the level of action. You
are tempted to make the judgment that similarity between
your own actions and other people's actions implies sim-
ilarity of commitment. This judgment fails to recognize
that different commitments may involve the same set of
actions. Committing yourself to the same set of actions
does not necessarily indicate the same commitment. "To
go to college" involves application for admission, regis-
tration, attending classes, taking tests, and many other
similar actions, but may not result from the same com-
mitment. The set of actions denoted by the phrase "to go
to college" will be different for different people, and
these differences will became more pronounced the fur-
ther one goes in college. The fact that you register and
attend classes does not indicate that your commitment
"to go to college" is the same as some other person's. A
commitment to avoid having to get a job, to escape from
the unpleasant home situation, or to be with your friends
may produce the same set of actions. Similarity of actions
may camouflage different motives. You cannot realistically
take the position that because you perform or propose
to perform actions similar to other people's that your
motives are the same as theirs.
A second pitfall creating confusion about the nature
of our commitments is at the linguistic level. Your de-
cision and another person's decision to use a similar or
the same group of words or phrases as a symbol of com-
mitment at the level of actions and at the level of concepts
may conceal differences of commitment. That is to say,
because you choose to use the phrase "to go to college"
to describe or symbolize your commitment and someone
else chooses the same set of words to express his com-
mitment does not mean that you and he have the same
commitment. Again the differences between commitments
will became increasingly distinct the further you go in
college.
11
The third and last pitfall that shall be considered is
at the conceptual level. Obviously when you decide "to
go to college"' and you have some concept, however
accurate, of what is involved in "going to college." Your
concept of what is involved in "going to college" may
not be the same as another person's concept of what
"going to college" involves. Also, your concept may be
far afield from what is actually involved in "going to
college." Perhaps a more restricted illustration will make
this clearer. Your concept of "studying for a test" will
probably include a time element, your notes or possibly
borrowed notes, the text, and your attention upon the
latter two for an indefinite span of time. Your concept
may stress the time element — four hours, six hours, or
ten hours. However, if you fail or make a low grade on
the test, your concept of "studying for a test" was inade-
quate for this test, and may need some revision.
During the first semester, usually, but sometimes
later, you will find that your concept of what "going to
college" involves is most inadequate. "Going to college"
is simply not what you thought it would be. At such
times you are approaching a re-consideration of your
original commitment "to go to college." After having
unsuccessfully tried to teach the college officials what a
college ought to be, you face a choice of staying in col-
lege and revising your concept of what it is "to go to
college," or staying without revising your concept, or
dropping out of college. A significant phase of "going
to college" is understanding better what "going to col-
lege" involves. Redefining your concept of what it is
"to go to college" produces a shift of commitment that
significantly influences what your college education will
be. The fact that you choose the same group of words
as other people — "to go to college" — to symbolize or
express your concept of what it is "to go to college"
should not be interpreted as implying that your concept
is the same as other people's concepts. Nor should you
infer that yours is an accurate concept of the actual
activities of "going to college."
While attention has been focused upon pitfalls that
may hide differences of commitment, it can be equally
disastrous to contend that the commitment "to go to
college" is different at all levels of commitment. Similarity
of commitment will be at a more abstract level than the
level of action or language or concept that is expressed
by the phrase "to go to college." The "field of values"
generated by commitment provides the significant simil-
arity between the commitments of two individuals. By
regarding the commitment "to go to college" as derived
from a commitment with a broader range of significance,
a basis of similarity of commitment within a "climate of
values" can be provided not only for college students
but for the whole college community — students, and
faculty members. The broader commitment is to the
general idea that it is better to know than not to know.
Regardless of what our concept of "knowing" is, this
level of commitment provides a range of significance and
creates a "climate of values" that merges different com-
mitments with more diverse but more restricted ranges.
For instance, even if you are committed to a major in
physics and another person to a major in music, both
commitments may occur within the same "climate of
values." This can be possible only if both of you are
committed to a common concept with a broader range
of significance. Commitment to the idea that it is better
to know than not to know is sufficiently broad to encom-
pass the less broad commitments to major fields. This
merging of commitments in the broader commitment to
the concept that to know is better than not to know
creates the intellectual community that is the college
or university.
It is paramount that you recognize the nature of
your own commitment "to go to college." Sjnce the
phrase "to go to college" may camouflage the real nature
of your commitment, it is necessary, on the one hand, to
look beyond this phrase to the actions you call "going to
college." On the other hand, you must look beyond the
phrase to your concept of what it is "to go to college."
In examining your actions you should ask, "Do my
actions reflect my concept of what 'going to college'
means?" Any action that is beyond the range of signifi-
cance of your concept of what it is "to go to college" will
be artificial for you. Actions that are performed merely
because others perform them will be superficial and mech-
anical rather than meaningful. This is not to say that
observing what others do when they "go to college" may
not benefit you. Such observations will benefit you, how-
ever, only if they are implied by your concept of what
is involved in "going to college" or if they lead to revision
of that concept.
Looking beyond the phrase "to go to college" to
your concept of what "going to college" involves is neces-
sary to the above analysis. In order to determine whether
your actions in "going to college" are implied by the
concept to which you are committed, you must discover
what that concept is. Your concept of "going to college"
is a system of simpler concepts, which will vary in their
ranges of significance. You are looking for the concept
with the greatest range of significance to which you are
committed. This is the concept that will for the range
of its significance determine what your education will
be. That is, its range of significance will determine what
actions are related to the concept in such a way as to be
meaningful. Actions beyond this range will have little
meaning for you. This is the range within which you are
most receptive to the systems of ideas you are studying
and within which self-deception will not be tolerated.
Systems of ideas beyond this range will have little mean-
ing for you and self-deception may be very influential.
This is not to say that commitment to this concept is so
fixed that it cannot be repalced or superseded by com-
mitment to some alernative concept. But it is only for
the duration of the commitment, which is its temporal
range, that it will describe the scope of your education.
Nor does this imply that your concept at any given time
is the one that will produce the best education for you.
A significant part of education is the search for concepts
sufficient to described the highest quality of education
for you. This will involve a continuously expanding search
for what it means "to go to college." Looking beyond
the surface of your decision "to go to college" is a neces-
sary part of your educative process. So you've decided
"to go to college"; but how well do you understand your
decision? Consider it well because it will significantly
influence what your education will be.
12
THE EXCHANGE
Gary A. Hogle
Twilight cast its deepening shadows across the rutted
dirt road and hid the dusty weeds and bushes that en-
tangled in a choking mass of vegetation. A solitary figure
of a man emerged from the fringe of darkness. Although
his step was faltering, grim determination was evident
as he groped for familiar landmarks along his path. The
waning light of sunset revealed a middle aged man of
slight stature, and medium height. He was dressed in a
nondescript, homespun uniform which was dyed a grey-
brown hue. The only distinguishing feature of his uniform
was the belt buckle that was caked with rust and dirt,
but still visably embossed with the initials, C. S. A. His
jacket bore the chevrons of a Lance Corporal of the
Confederate artillery. A festering wound covered the
right side of his face. His common, sallow features were
twisted with pain and the remaining left eye was a
colorless, clouded window of bitterness.
Karl Sterner was coming home. Many of the surviv-
ing men who had left with Karl, years ago, would never
be home. There really wasn't much to come home to.
Pickens, Georgia, was spared little devastation by General
Sherman's marauding raiders. The only place for the
Confederate veterans to begin anew was the western
frontier. But where could Karl go, with his schrapnel
gouged lungs, his burned face, and blindness gradually
claiming his remaining eye. What was left of Karl Sterner's
home was nothing, but so was Karl Sterner . . . nothing.
When the War between the states began, Karl Sterner
was barely eking out an existence from the sandy Georgia
soil. He was tilling the same sterile acres his father had
tilled before him. The popular topic of slavery was of
little interest, since the prospect of ever owning a slave
was about as distant into fantasy as owning a team of
carriage horses. Karl's scope of government hardly encom-
passed the rural government of Pickins County, let alone
the pravailing storm of dispute between States Rightists
and Federalists. The stirring stanzas of "Dixie" left him
totally apathetic, and the "stars and bars" of the Confed-
eracy was only a colorful addition to the "mysterious
Cause." To the residents of Pickins County "the Cause
of the Confederacy" had a number of meanings and inter-
pretations. The Flemings, of Flora Plantation, believed
the "Cause" meant they should fight the Union to pre-
serve their slaveholdings, and their numerous acres of
land. Arnold Hughson, the youngest practicing lawyer
of Pickins County, believed in fighting against the inter-
ference and political oppression of the Federal Govern-
ment. Judson Brimm, a teamster for the brewery, relished
the thought of "fighting for the Cause," any cause, as
long as it meant a good fight for any reason, without
intrusion from the law. To Karl Sterner the "Cause"
meant he would have to leave his home and fight for
the Confederacy, "cause he was a Southerner, cause he
was able bodied and of untetched mind, cause it was
the thing to do, and everybody else seemed to be joining
the fight;" therefore leaving him no alternative but to
abide to the demands of the last "Cause," "cause he
had to."
The call to arms, by the Governor of Georgia, was
enthusiastically received by most of the Georgians. Pickins
County was no exception, by its adroit display of fire-
works, balls, fairs and military pageantry. Young Southern
aristocrats accepted commissions from the Confederacy,
and by the dozens they rode off to serve on the various
fronts of the assembling Confederate armies. It was a
spectacular sight, the morning they left, the officers in
tailored grey uniforms, plumed hats, and mounted upon
blooded horses, followed by the volunteer infantrymen,
mostly owners of small farms, and merchants, incongruous
in their uniforms of dyed butternut scattered among
various shades of grey. The band played "Dixie" and
the "Bonnie Blue Flag" with such fervor that old men
and young boys fought to join the ranks of the infantry,
only to be turned back. If only these disheartened rejects
had known that soon they would be Georgia's only first,
and last line of defense, it would have lightened their
feelings of remorse. Then they were gone, leaving memo-
ries of a dashing beau on a capricious stallion, a pale,
bespectacled husband uneasily shifting an unfamiliar rifle
13
from shoulder to shoulder, whispered promises, and
dreams of future glory. The hot summer sun rose higher,
the dust settled in the streets, banners and flags flapped
idly in the breeze, dogs dozed under musty porches, and
women went their ways trying to fulfill the tasks and
responsibilities left by their departed "Knights in Grey
Wool."
As inconspicuously as possible Karl Sterner tried to
find his way home to his farm. Karl had really meant
to leave with the men that morning, but things just kept
coming up to interfere with his departure; the ducks got
loose, repairs were needed around the cabin, his musket
wouldn't fire, but the real problem was his wife. She
was attractive, but sickly, and Karl knew that once he left,
the burden of running the farm would have been too
much for her. Even one more day with her meant so
much to him. Karl's lack of adequate support for her
had done little to mar her devotion to him. Although
they were childless, neither tried to lay blame upon the
other, and only accepted it as an act of providence. Now
Karl was on his way home to say good-by. He was blind
drunk. Everybody bought drinks for Karl that morning,
including the mayor. After all, one of the protectors of
the sovereign state of Georgia needed a little toast to
strengthen him on his journey. Karl just couldn't get
around to mentioning the fact that he wouldn't be leaving
with the brigade, and by the time he found an opportunity
to do so, he was too drunk to make himself intelligible.
So as the Brigade marched out, the crowds dispersed, and
the merriment subsided, there lay Karl, passed out cold
on the front stoop of the post office. Buzzing flies, and
waves of nausea welcomed Karl back to the realm of
consciousness. Amidst the hostile stares of the remaining
inhabitants of Pickens, and the taunts of children, Karl
painstakingly made his way to the outskirts of town. The
hot sun was just too much for his condition, and on his
hands and knees he began his trek homeward. Karl had
no trouble finding the way. This condition was really
nothing new, Karl was really much more familiar with
the horizontal landmarks than he was with the upright
ones. In fact everybody driving along that road at night
always kept a wary eye out for Karl Sterner's prostrate
form. Many people thought that perhaps he should find
an easier way to get home, but Karl did have his pride.
Karl's shabby cabin and overgrown front yard wav-
ered into his vision just before sunset. As he maneuvered
his way through the door, his wife was standing by the
table with his rifle and his hunting pack.
That evening, during the height of a torrential sum-
mer storm, Karl hefted his knapsack, filled with side pork,
black-eyed peas, and cornbread, upon his shoulder, picked
up his rifle, and walked off into the night. Lightening
silhouetted his rain-drenched figure against the trees be-
fore he was covered by darkness, and then he was gone.
Three bloody and devastating years had passed since
that night. Karl Sterner was returning home as inglori-
ously and un-pretentiously as he had left. Compared to
the valor displayed by the majority of the men, who had
answered to the beckonings of the Confederate "war
drums," Karl remained the least distinguished. Gerald
Fleming had died heroically, while leading a suicidal
cavalry charge in a desperate attempt to delay a company
of Indiana mounted dragoons, who had encircled General
Hood and his staff. Coughing blood and raving against
the tyranny of the Yankee Government, Arnold Hughson
froze to death while held as a Prisoner of War in Bock
Island, Illinois. Judson Brimm, who had risen to the rank
of Captain during the war, had ridden West to join Quan-
trill and his raiders.
Karl had spent his entire time in the Army of the
Confederacy as a gunner's assistant. The only distinguish-
ment he achieved was to be cited as the most efficient
bore swabber in the company. Eventually he became
deaf from the constant concussion of the discharging
cannons. Although he rinsed his eyes repeatedly, his
sight was gradually impaired by sulphurous smoke and
particles of burned gunpowder. Two days before the
South succumbed to a Northern victory, a cannon in
Karl's battery exploded, killing its crew and hurtling
pieces of schrapnel into Karl's body and face. Only by
the quick action of an Army surgeon was Karl saved
from drowning in his own blood. There was little they
could do with the restoration of his face. All of the facial
features of his right side had been destroyed. Days later,
while lying in a hot, steamy field hospital, wracked with
pain, breathing air permeated with the stench of gangrene,
Karl and the other casualties were told, "The war is over,
go home, forgive your enemies, and forget the past."
How long ago had that been? Karl really had no
recollection of time. His memory was only a hazy jumble
of hitching rides with rumbling farm carts, stumbling
along rocky paths and roads, begging food from half-
starved families, digging for roots and over-looked pota-
toes in scrubby, wind-swept fields, and snatching a few
precious hours of sleep in the under-brush, or a deserted
farm.
As Karl groped his way along that lonely road he
unknowingly passed Flora Plantation, now a desolate,
abandoned domain of devastated majesty. Its grandiose
mansion nothing but a fire gutted ruin, the once rolling,
fertile fields choked with weeds, and the rich soil gouged
and eroded by unchecked floods of streams, swollen by
the spring rains. Long ago that very road would have
echoed with the laughter of playing children, resounded
with the hearty hails of neighboring sharecroppers, as
they rested on their porches in the cool of the evening,
and the air would have wafted the smell of night-bloom-
ing jasmine and magnolia. Now there was nothing but a
deathly silence, the smell of decay, and an aura of neglect.
14
Karl knew what to expect when he reached his home.
His wife would not be waiting. Unkind rumors had spread
rapidly throughout the ranks of Karl's brigade, during
the latter part of the war. Eventually Karl learned of her
willingness to leave her home and follow a young aide-
de-camp of General Sherman. The knowledge of her
unfaithfulness was not as penetrating as the news of her
death in the cold, bitter snows of Pennsylvania. From
that day on, Karl's soul was crushed to nothingness. Life
became a duty to perform, a task to overcome, and an
obligation to fulfill. A smile was a burden, and a laugh
a torment to the very essence of his existence. Love was
a myth, life a farce, and all tenderness and human feel-
ings became implements of the gods, contrived to torture
the souls of mortal men.
Brambles and briars tore at his clothing, as Karl
made his way up the path to his cabin. The front steps
had rotted and fallen into a jumbled pile of molderding
timbers, and the porch and yard were littered with the
refuse of bivouacing troops and wandering derelicts.
Dampness and mold were everywhere inside the cabin,
and field mice scurried from under the debris. In des-
peration Karl hurried down the path past his cabin to
find solace in his precious few acres of land. In the pale
glow of the moon he could only see a rocky, wind-swept
plot of ground that had once nurtured thousands of cotton
plants, blending into the rich, reddish soil with their
natural hues of green leaves and white bolls of cotton.
With a sob of despair Karl fell to his knees and clenched
a fistful of the dusty, arid soil. He had to begin anew,
he had to. This is where he would begin, with this sterile,
neglected land. Karl had failed himself for the last time.
His life was of no more value than the parched soil he
had held in his hand, but he would re-create his life as
deliberately as he would re-claim the dust that trickled
through his fingers, and was swept away by the swirling
winds.
Each morning Karl forced his pain-wracked body
down to the fields, and with his dimming vision meticu-
ously planted each seed of cotton. Urgency prodded his
aching limbs, and tortured lungs to greater speed, in the
cultivation of his plants. Each day the rattle in his lungs
became more evident, and the need for a greater amount
of oxygen was increasing steadily.
Karl carried water to the fields by a bucket. It was
a long, tedious process, but it was so vital a task that it
couldn't be shirked. With his vision almost completely
destroyed, Karl would fumble among the mounds of soil
searching for weeds, and vegetation that would have im-
paired the growth of the young cotton plants, once they
had sprouted through the soil. Life was slowly ebbing
from his body, but the fervor of his zealous endeavors
to rejuvenate his fields only increased.
One morning, when Karl awoke, his only thoughts
were to alleviate the searing pain that tore at his lungs
with every breath. No, Karl thought, not yet, it's too
soon; but, maybe it isn't. Stumbling blindly, coughing,
and spewing frothy bubbles of blood from his mouth,
Karl hurried to the patch of ground he had so carefully
tended. He threw himself upon the dirt and began to
frantically feel for some sign of life. His fingers tore
deeply into the earth, searching for the leaves of the
cotton plants, the roots, something; something to show
life. "Oh God," he cried, "Oh God, please, please,
please," but he found nothing, and the tears from his
sightless eyes fell to mingle with the red Georgia clay,
and formed rivulets of blood that flowed over his still
hands that lay partially buried in the sandy mounds. The
rattled breathing had stopped, the tears had ceased to
flow, and the only sounds were the harsh cries of the
crows, and the rustle of the dry brush in the breeze.
His grave was a stony furrow, and his eulogy was
cried out by the wind, as it raced across the barren soil
swirling into tornadoes of dust.
The months passed, and then the rains came. Light-
ening split the sky with a flash of brightness, and the
crashing roll of thunder resounded across the country-
side. The rains subsided and the sun broke through the
clouds to spread its fiery rays throughout the rain
drenched land.
Where Karl Sterner's body had lain, bright green
leaves of cotton seedlings had begun to sprout their way
through the soil. That patch of ground had burst forth
with an abundance of seedlings that stood like an oasis
of life, surrounded by fields of desolation and despair.
Life had begun anew.
15
IT'LL NEVER HAPPEN TO YOU
Warren Canon
Two soldiers sat in the corner of the cafe. The cafe
wasn't crowded because few people took the four o'clock
train to Nurnberg; it wasn't the popular train. A heavy
waitress strode out from behind the small bar, carrying
a small tray. The room smelt of old men.
The waitress halted sullenly before their table and
the older soldier, Bruno, ordered the drinks, speaking
almost perfect German. As he spoke to her his deeply
set eyes betrayed no emotion, the controlled smile slightly
easing as he finished ordering. He brushed his hand
through his thick brown hair, looking across the table
to Ashly's young, unscarred face. He was glad that Ashly
had come to the station with him. He didn't want to be
at the station alone. He had only known Ashly for a
few months, and was now leaving him and this town
before he had ever expected. The time would pass, and
the train would come, and he could talk to Ashly.
"What the hell did you come for?" said Bruno.
"Came to see you off," said Ashly, looking out the
window behind Bruno.
"The hell you did. You came to have a drink."
"Came to buy you one." Ashly waved his hand to
the waitress.
The waitress brought cognac and a beer for Ashly.
Bruno slowly revolved the small glass between his thumb
and forefinger. After a few moments he drank the con-
tents silently.
"The best drink I've had since the court martial,"
he said, pasting a grin across his thin cheeks.
"You mean 'Since Christmas'," said Ashly, gulping
at the yellow beer.
Bruno turned his chair to the side and leaned back
slightly.
"See that church out there, kid?"
Ashly turned to the window.
"In '45, in Patton's forward recon, we came up
directly on that small hill back there. The Major put an
AP round over the church, just nicking the top of that
steeple. You can still see the nick in it. Ten minutes
later the Bur germeister and some of his boys came out
waving white flags. Went through this town so fast we
didn't even get laid. Ended up in Elgelsdorf that night."
"Never told me that before, about the church and
all, I mean."
"Well, I never think about it much."
Now, he could see the steeple without looking and
it was evening then. The Major's face was bright as he
took aim. His little hobby, as he called it. 'Only the
Catholic ones boys,' he woul chuckle, winking at them,
'the Pope can afford it.'
Can you tell him how much you hated him? In the
end the major was the enemy, and you knew it. Finally
you know that you can't tell it, unable to hold your
memories true. You even wonder if he thinks you're lying.
You can't even remember the streets and corners now,
just the way the cobblestones looked in the evening rain.
You don't even know yourself about the truth.
You come to something young, and leave it . . . how?
How do you leave it? It was fresh, and you even thought
it was important. You worked well and they told you
how important you weer to them and gave you bright
ribbons to prove it. You did all the stupid petty things
and even began to believe in them. But you stayed
because there was a part of you that felt good, and
orderly inside. The home inside that you never had
before. You lived for that part, even when you didn't
feel it or touch it for a long time. You stayed because
you knew it would come back.
And it came back to you in the court martial. You
felt it inside when you looked at the ragged face of the
captain and you knew he didn't feel it and he never
would. It sat there, and you felt it cooly coaring inside
and you called him a liar for the third time that morning.
And now I'm out there with you Major; the used
car salesman that go to the reserve meetings and tell lies.
"What's the highest you ever were?" said Ashly. He
could see Ashly glancing to the dark spots on his sleeve,
where the stripes had come and gone through the years
and his uniform had not faded when they were on.
He looked down, over his shoulder. "I was a Master
after Korea ... in '54."
"Christ! Bruno, what got all those stripes from you."
He started at a long scar running across his wrist.
It was changing with the cognac to the old familiar
blue color.
"Oh . . . don't know. The booze, the women, mov-
ing around, no family, maybe Korea and the way it was
there."
His voice trailed away into the walls and in the
stillness they could hear the metal squeaking of a baggage
cart wheeling away from the Cafe.
"Mostly I guess it was the booze," he said.
"I guess it was a lot different in Korea than in
Two, huh?"
He looked sharply across to Ashly. Ashly's eyes
peered brightly over the rim of the gigantic beer mug.
He grabbed his own cognac, looking down at his hand
and the way the redish blue line curled around the small
glass. The line cleaved up his forearm, under his uniform.
A snake coiled tightly across the glass, lifting and coming
closer to his opened eyes. Finally, he was touching the
hot wetness of the cognac with his lips and the line on
his wrist blurred his eyes.
"Ashly, if we had a three day pass there wouldn't
be enough time for me to tell you about Korea. As it
is we got, or rather I got, about half an hour. Let's have
another."
What could you tell him? That they called you Pop
because you had been in the last one? When they talked
to you in the darkness with their boyish voices you could
see oyruself sitting there talking back, being yourself.
They'll call you iceman behind your back, Ashly, and
you'll cringe everythime you hear the word. Wanting to
16
give something, but nothing you're not afraid to give.
Nothing you can give. You're a cripple! You'll know that
then. You know it after the first time. You know about
friends then. You'd rather look at your bloody belly and
bent hand than face a friend's upturned eyes in the mud
some morning.
Twenty-one years, and they tell you with a straight
face that you are unable to adapt to miliary life. Twenty-
one years, and you are standing in the dark, near the
fence, waiting for your relief, thinking about how warm
and red the stove is in the guard house. Thinking about
how warm and real four hours of sleep is and forgetting
about the smell of the boots and the transit mattresses.
Forgetting even it's Christmas.
You hear it, a shuffle, and you're turning, bringing
the rifle down, the old habit. You see him standing on
the tank, holding a box of rations awkwardly. The
stranger, the German, makes a small sound, coming from
his throt and muffled in the air, before you even get
'Halt' out, before you see the box hurling darkly toward
you from above. Backing away, slipping in the snow,
you see his terrified face receding downward, just before
you hit the ground, wet in the snow. Flooded in adren-
alin, you're shaking your mittens off, feeling the barrel
of the teel still in your hand. The steel is cold and the
bolt cuts your hand, but all you feel is his weight on you
and the cold between your legs as he grabs your throat.
There is a shudder, a mush, you know, it, you've done it
before. You only feel it because you are screaming the
old kill words into the night, not hearing the shell that
killed him.
In the daylight, in the warm room, the colonel tells
you about German - American relations. He speaks of
newspapers and propaganda, and you listen. You tell
him the truth and he tells you some more about the
newspapers and propaganda. You try to tell him about
the cold, about the fingers in your throat, your mittens,
the naked feeling, but he loks at some papers on the
desk and you never talked to him. He talks, looking near
you, abouty publicity, and the meaning of a guilty plea in
a ^military court. He talks abou the speed of the trial
and the mercy of the court in such cases. He says things,
but you only catch phrases now,°about thinking things
over, doing the smart thing, letting them take care of it,
and not worrying.
The waitress brought more drinks to the table. Bruno
slid a ten mark not toward her, not looking as she made
change. He looked through the window, seeing the dark
clouds of a winter storm sliding across the panes. Ashly
ran his thumb slowly along the moist stein.
"Listen kid, you keep on working like you been
working for me and you won't have any trouble. For
a guy that's only been at it a little while you make one
of the best armors I've seen. I mean it!"
"Aw, don't give me that stuff, Bruno. I dont' need it."
"Watch the .30's and the .50's. Keep the headspace
close on them. They always check 'em close on inspec-
tion, and if they're looking good they won't even mess
around with the other weapons. Remember that! And
don't start keeping a bottle under the bayonets, like I
did. You hear?"
They stood on the far platform, near the stairs, kick-
ing absently at the canvas bags between them. The wind
was up now, and the first of the storm sent small flecks
of snow across the tracks into the dirt. They were alone,
apart from the Germans. The shrill whistle of a German
train came to them, far away, coming through the hills.
Bruno thought of the boxcared trains that carried men
to Dachau. He kicked his duffle bag again.
"I never thought it would be like this. I just never
thought about it this way." He was looking at Ashly,
at the way the snow was melting on his throat, around
his collar.
"We all knew how the godamn officers would screw
you. Hadn't been Christmas an' him having a couple
of kids it wouldn't a ever been."
"Tell 'Old Jaws' goodby for me, will ya? I wish I
could'a seen him again."
"Yeah, I will . . . listen, Bruno, it could'a been
worse. You got an honorable and you retire as a Master.
Now you seen 'em screw 'em up a lot worse than that!"
The whistle wailed now and the light of the train
could be seen dimply pushing through the storm. In the
snow they could see the dark crowd of Germans moving
in their great-coats. Their gutteral voices fading into
the sharp whistle. He could feel the concrete rattling
under his feet as the black coaches came pouring onto
the platform, clattering and hissing the snow free from
the rolling body. The Germans were climbing aboard,
through the steam.
They carried the bags to the steps of the dark coach.
Bruno threw the heavy duffle bag up into the aisle and
stepping upon the first step he took the small bag from
Ashly.
"Thanks for coming, kid."
"Hey, watch that bag. I put a bottle of Yak in there
for you."
Bruno looked down at Ashly's crooked grin. "Yeah,
where did you get the money for that? You re-enlist?"
"I just might of. An stop calling me 'kid'."
"All right. Screw you, kid."
They were shaking hands, cold and tight in the
winter air. The conductor was shouting and glancing at
his watch.
"Screw you, Bruno."
"Screw em all, kid."
The black coach moved so slightly that they weren't
sure of the direction. The whistle screamed into the night
and Bruno couldn't hear what Ashly was saying, although
he could see his mouth moving. He waved his red scarred
hand, backing up the steps, look away now.
The window was misty and all Ashly could see was
a green shadow moving; a blur.
The mist filled windows moved, gathering speed,
until they were just yellow flowing away into the night.
The long black body screamed and snaked through the
hills; a great river winding to the sea.
17
NO VACANCY
Muriel Gray Gagnon
It'd been a year, in fact, almost a year and a half,
since I'd been back to what I laughingly referred to as
The Ranch. What had first started out as the one ambi-
tious experiment in my life now stood out, not as a failure,
but as a haunting, unfulfilled void. That the expriment
didn't work wasn't because I didn't try — Lordy how I
tried!
But Lady Luck just wasn't with me that year. And
now, that I found myself traveling down a highway that
ran dangerously close to this period in my past, my heart
began to pound in ever-increasing rhythm, trying in its
own way to make me hurry.
I hadn't planned to, but suddenly I found myself
helplessly slowing down and turning right, into secondary
road 534A. I pulled over to a stop. Ahead and to the
left of me, I could just make out the gabled roof of the
Albritton house, almost completely concealed by the sur-
rounding grove. This was growing country — orange-
spotted citrus trees most everywhere, and where they
weren't, you'd find silent, seemingly stationary prize Brah-
man cattle grazing in the thick, heavy scrub.
I wanted to return to the main highway, but I
couldn't. I seemed to be a prisoner in my own car,
forced to start up again, to wind my way slowly over
the familiar, hilly narrow passage that cut through orange
groves. The trees were heavy and full with near-ripened
fruit, and I knew that the quietness of the countryside
soon would give way to the mellifluent shouts of the
picking gangs, and the hums and whines of the conveyor
machines filling the hungry trucks. I felt contentment.
I felt contentment in my soul, but why I should feel
I was returning home, I had no idea. This wasn't really
my home. I had no family here, no friends to speak of,
and no fond memories of my youth. I hadn't even been
raised here. Where I was headed was not much more
than a ten acre tract. I had purchased it on impulse, a
few years back, from a fast-talking land developer.
As the last hairpin curve before Pine Tree Drive
came into view, I involuntarily slowed to a snail's pace
as I remembered back to the day I saw old Mr. McGill,
with old Mrs. McGill perched atop the cultivator he was
towing, deliberately back his tractor into the nearby
drainage canal, then guffawing loudly at her plight.
As I turned left into the half-hidden wagon trail
that was called Pine Tree Drive, I knew that this was
where I belonged. Certainly no stranger could have
known that these deserted tracks were Pine Tree Drive.
The wooden street sign — its letters gone, the white paint
weathered down to bare post and crosspiece — served
as a silent reminder that civilization had once tried to
invade this primitive, raw, silent hill. No grove land or
graze land this — but scrubby, snake-infested palmetto
brush, protected from sun and sky by tall, tight, Australian
pine.
Shaking and quaking as I jounced and bounced my
way up that last mile, I found myself hanging on to the
steering wheel more for balancing than for steering. The
rim-deep ruts held the tires in their vice-like grip, leading
us, my car and me, to our destination.
As, now the abandoned lodge in the clearing was
coming into view. Here, in the waist-high sawgrass, was
what I had come in search of. Here was the farm I had
tried to establish and failed, here was the site of my at-
tempt to return to the land when it had no use for me.
Here was my home.
I drove into what was once a well-kept yard and
turned off the ignition, but I didn't get out. I was afraid.
I was afraid of this naked skeleton of a dream that was
once my whole life.
The sun-bleached, weatherbeaten front door hung
crazily from the top hinge, not moving, not being prodded
at all by the stiff breeze whistling through the two broken
windows. The windows seemed to start back at me in
utter disbelief, that the likes of me should have the gall
to trespass into this private corner of God.
Then I knew the truth. I was never wanted here.
Never needed by what I had grown to love — the rustle
of every leaf, the call of the crow for his missing mate,
even the rattler I had just spotted, poised momentarily
in the doorway before it slithered silently with a purpose
under the desolate house in pursuit of prey.
No, I didn't get out of the car, but instead started
her up again, circled my home in silent goodbye, and
headed back to the world from whence I'd come.
18
DARKNESS AND RAIN
Tim Inserra
The park is empty. Darkness and solitude envelop
me. The bench I am sitting on is vacant. The universe.
Here I come for peace, to think, to satisfy my mind,
to torture my body. Here I sit; an appalling example of
free thought.
All is material.
" A sound. Someone walking. I am not alone. An
old man. Drunk.
To drink. In utter despair I would drown my thoughts
in drink. Utter despair. To drown my thoughts. NO!
My thoughts are good thoughts. They are good thoughts
because they are MY thoughts. MINE. I need not drown
what is mine. I am not ashamed.
He is a filthy old man. Drunk. Disguest. He will
die in a gutter and I will be glad. Smile.
He is gone.
My mind must return to me. My thoughts. My mind.
What is creation? It does not exist. What is to
create from nothing? There is no creation. COMBINA-
TION. All is combination. All is material.
A sound. A horn. Someone is playing a horn. The
blues. Play me a sad song. Alone. The blues and the
abstract truth. Genius plus soul equals jazz Purity.
"Shut that damn noise up! I'd like to get a little
sleep ya know."
He stops. No blues. No truth. It was a harsh voice.
Unyielding. A spoiler.
The silence returns.
He must be sad that he can no langer play. How is
he to know what is good and right if he cannot play?
Toment. Damn that spoiler!
People walking. Two people. Outside the park fence.
People in love. Negroes. Hand in hand.
They stop at the gate and look upon the empty park.
Darkness. They cannot see me, I know they cannot. He
speaks to her. She seems timid and shy. Why would they
enter this park, this darkness, this emptyness? Please do
not enter. PLEASE do not enter!
They leave. Together. I return to myself.
Wind. Trees.
I believe to my soul that I am myself. Myself is
good because it is me. My soul . . . No, not my soul.
All is material. I believe to my body. My body is real.
Fright. A scream. Sounds of a violent struggle some-
where near me. A woman. Danger. The trees move in
violence and pain. Many people. A woman alone.
I cannot move.
She no longer protests. The struggle has ceased.
Many people leave. Heavy feet. She is alone. The park
is silent.
Crawling. Coming to me. Ripped and ragged.
Crawling for help. Her arm pleas for my aid.
I rise. Walking. The gate is before me. I leave
the park.
It begins to rain.
19
IT REMINDS ONE OF THE OPERA
H. Crews
The world was young and green in the park under
the spreading trees where men and women strolled about
or sat on little concrete benches placed to catch the
warmness of the spring sun. Their soft smooth faces
seemed almost to glow. A young man and woman met
in the entrance to the park and turned diagonally across
it, stepping briskly along in a strong, crisp stride to the
other side where they came out of the trees into a plaza
fronting a marble building that shone in the sun like
polished bone.
"Do you think this will be the last one this week?"
asked the young man.
"Perhaps," the young woman aswered, "If it's a
success."
The corridor they entered was white and uncluttered
and smelled of disinfectant.
"I don't mind attending them," he said, trying to
keep the conversation going because he thought the girl
attractive and was trying to get up the courage to ask
her to dinner and a show. "But I do think scheduling
more than one a week is rather much."
"I do too," she said. "But there's not much one
can do, really."
They went into a round room in the center of which
there was a fierce spot of light brilliantly focused on an
empty chair. Tier after tier of darkened seats rose in
expanding circles toward the domed ceiling. There were
perhaps two hundred spectators already quietly seated
in the darkness surrounding the light. The young woman
led her companion to a seat in the very first row. She sat
down and propped her elbows on the bright stainless steel
railing that separated the spectators from the circle of
light.
"I always say if you've got to attend these demon-
strations, you might as well get close enough to see."
She smiled a small apology.
"I always say the same thing," he said, watching
her bare firm arm out of the corner of his eye, trying to
think of a way to broach the subject. A silence stretched
after his words, ruptured now and again by a muffled
cough or sigh somewhere in the darkness behind them.
"It reminds one of the opera at times," he said.
"There is a certain resemblance," she said.
"I mean in the lighting and stage effect," he said.
"Precisely," she said.
An old man was brought out by an attendant and
made to sit upon the chair in the circle of light. He was
left alone, wearing a rough brown pair of trousers and a
rough, short-sleeved shirt, sitting stiffly, his delicate
veined arms folded over his lap.
A young man stepped smartly to the side of the old
man and cleared his throat. "Welcome ladies and gentle-
men to this the nine thousand four hundred and thirty
second successive lecture of the Society for the Preven-
tion of Senility and the Encouragement of Optimum life
Termination." His voice was high, sing-song, monotonous.
He might have been demonstrating a potato peeler in a
department store. He reached out and touched the old
man's shoulder. "This is senility and before we are
through ..."
The young man leaned close to the young woman
and said in a lowered voice. "You've got to admire the
way he holds your attention through what would other-
wise be a terribly boring lecture."
"Quite," she said. "I understand he was once a TV
news broadcaster."
"Certainly a fascinating delivery," said the young
man putting his hand on the armrest next to hers. The
warmth of her flesh touched him.
"... to notice the eyes. I have it on good authority
that this man's visual and mental powers are so far deteri-
orated that he cannot recognize those people nearest him,
his keeper, his doctor, etc. But more than that." And
here the lecturer paused and then said in a raised voice,
"Sometimes he does not even know who he is, that is, he
does not recognize himself!"
"Can you imagine," said the young man pressing
his elbow into her firm yet yielding side and wondering
if part of what he felt was not her breast.
"Almost unbelievable," she said, shifting enough to
accommodate him a little but not enough, she decided,
to make him think her easy.
"... the sagging muscles ..."
"Do you go often to the theatre?"
"... the flaccid pauch ..."
"Quite often," she said.
"... and that is why it is so important, as I'm sure
you young people realize, to keep these cases of age
before you in a steady stream, bringing them forth in the
full flower, so to speak, of their decay. That way each
of vou will be ready to do to yourselves ivhat is necessary
when it is necessary, which is, in the final analysis, all
our world demands of you."
20
"Then it's a date?" asked the young man, absolutely
certain now that part of what he felt was indeed her
breast.
"Yes," she smiled, turning her face full to him so
that he could see how even her teeth were in case he
missed them earlier.
"... and lastly I bring your attention to the skin."
The old man had been made to stand and the lecturer
removed the rough, brown shirt as he talked. "I bring
your especial notice to the apparent lack of support in
the flesh, as though not really attached to bone and
cartilage underneath, the way the skin hangs in down-
ward ripples and dimples. And while it is true that an
old man's skin has the softness of a baby's, it is a softness
that has no foundation, no bottom so to speak, and is
therefore entirely unhealthy and unlovely." The young
lecturer waved one hand in a brief motion and the at-
tendant came out and stood beside the old man who had
been allowed to sit again upon his chair. The attendant
had a hypodermic needle in a white cloth which he held
in his right hand.
"He certainly is thorough, isn't he?" sh said.
"... and that concludes the demonstration and
lecture for today." The attendant inserted the needle
and the old man stiffened and slid out of the chair to the
floor. He never closed his blue staring eyes.
"Very thorough," he agreed.
"Strange how, after the initial shock of the needle,
they just seem to suddenly relax all over," she said.
"As though every bone in them had turned to wet
sand."
"Precisely," she said.
They were out of the lecture room now, moving
slowly along the corridor. At the end of it they could
already see the faint glare of the yellow spring sun. He
was holding her hand.
"There is to be a Special next week, you know,"
he said.
"I was reading the notices," she said. "A I remem-
ber, it said they would not only show an old man extern-
ally but internally as well."
"That's the one," he said. "Would you like to go
with me?"
"Surely," she said, squeezing his hand. "I've never
seen the inside of an old man."
"I have," he said, a note of pride getting into his
voice in spite of himself.
"I hear their intestines are black as rope," she said.
"Well, yes that's true, but it's not the intestines that
get you. It's the heart."
"The heart?"
"There's something about the size of it. Looks twice
as big as it should. Perhaps it's because the body is so
withered and shrunken. Anyway when they haul that
thing out of there, it really does something to you."
"Sounds fascinating!"
"I'll let you decide," he said.
"I'm looking forward to it already," she said.
They stopped at the entrance to the park.
"Dinner at my place tomorrow night and then the
theatre?"
"Right," she said.
"Would you prefer red or white wine after dinner?"
he asked.
"Red," she said.
THE RETURN
Connie Sue Carveth
The town, as I had known it in my younger days,
was always full of merriment. The children had played
tag in the dusty main street and had often scampered
to my front porch in their frolicking games. It had
warmed my heart to watch them gobble the molasses
cookies I would have waiting for them during the hot
summer days. Even now, I can still hear their angelic
voices chanting Christmas carols beneath my window
on a cold December night.
The children do not play games any more. They
search for any food scraps they can gather during the
day and collect firewood to keep them warm at night.
Many of the men are imprisoned, leaving their wives
and children to face a life of despair. Some of the older
folks of our town have also been imprisoned. Many of
those unable to bear the shock of the terror on their aged
bodies have died.
I can not believe that I have returned to the town
where life was once so carefree and gay. The scars of
fear and murder are everywhere. Though I have been
away only ten years, it has been long enough for trusting
friends to fear me. Everyone seems to turn his back to
me and to each other. Moreover, the older boys have
been taken away to camps where they have been trained
in the tactics of theft and murder.
Families have been separated; homes, destroyed;
and property, confiscated. Old friendships have dissolved
and new ones will never again gel. I often wish I had
never set out to conquer the world as I stand here view-
ing my hometown on my way to exile on the island of
Saint Helena.
21
THE MANY VOICES OF ARTHUR MILLER
Lisa Ruden
Quit recently, a very important development on the
American theatrical scene took place in the form of the
opening of the ultramodern, beautiful Lincoln Center
in New York City and with it the announcement, that the
American Repertory Theater had selected its "Home"
playwright. It came to no one's surprise, when the play
"After the Fall" by Pulitzer Prize-winner Arthur Miller
was chosen to open the new Center together with the
declaration, that he was going to be the "Bard" of the
company. As everyone recalls, especially on his 400th
birthday, Shakespeare was the only writer, whose plays
were produced in the old Glove theater and so Arthur
Miller, the only writer, whose plays will be produced at
Lincoln Center for the time being, can rightly be called
the American "Bard."
Why was Miller, whose early efforts met with such
great disappointment, chosen to this exalted position over
such eminent contemporaries as Tennessee Williams, Wil-
liam Saroyan or Maxwell Anderson? Can it be, that his
almost clinical revelations of the inner conflict of par-
ticularly the American male — for instance Willie Lowman
in Death of a Salesman — have struck a certain note
in the heart of most Americans and have made some of
his leading characters true portraits of the American
composite?
Let us take a closer look at some of his characters,
these supposed figments of his imagination, who have
so many fascinating, diversified facets.
Invariably, each time a new play is presented, the
question arises as to which of the characters depicted,
represents the actual voice of the author. Arthur Miller
is no exception and we find him, or a great part of his
personality, in a great number of his characters. In his
last play, After the Fall, the leading character of
"Quentin" was so thinly disguised, that very few people
took Miller seriously, when he stated to reporters after
the glittering premiere: "That man up there isn't me.
A playwright doesn't put himself on the stage, he only
dramatizes certain forces within himself."1
We will consider his latest play After the Fall more
fully, but first let us recount the outstanding and finely
etched other studies of his brainchildren. Certainly the
most famous of them all is the wretched hero of his
Death of a Salesman, Willie Lowman. Nothing really
mattered to Willie more than to be "well liked." Willie
caught the imagination of the American theater goer,
because it was so easy to identify oneself or one's relative
or friend, with this modern day Everyman, the salesman,
who could sell anything. After 43 years of hard work,
he is told by the youthful son of his late boss, that he
is no longer needed. It is the theme of "the orange eaten
and the peel thrown away,"2 presented to us in a strong,
masterful fashion by the talented author. Willie, however,
has nothing about him, that resembels Arthur Miller in
the lightest degree. It was the character of Biff, who
voiced the author's own convictions and beliefs.
1 "After the Fall" Arthur Miller's Return. NEWSWEEK, February 3,
1964, Vol. LXIII, p. 49.
2 Allan Lewis, THE CONTEMPORARY THEATER, New York, 1962)
p. 295.
Biff, Willie's older son, is able to look through the
futile attempts of his father to make life a success, or
rather what Willie thinks of as success. The son, after
being psychologically hurt as a youngster by discovering,
that his idealized father is not the perfect knight in shin-
ing armour, that virtually his idol has feet of clay (he
discovers a woman in his father's hotel room, when he
pays him a surprise visit in Boston, where Willie had
gone on a business trip) he realizes his own limitations.
This is masterfully brought out by the author in the
very last part of the play, called Requiem. It is after
Willie's funeral. The father has committed suicide, he
felt he was more worth to his family dead than alive. All
the principals are staring at Willie's grave:
6 O O
Biff: He had the wrong dreams. All, all wrong.
Happy: Don't say that!
Biff: He never knew who he was.
Charley (Willie's friend) to Biff: Nobody dast
blame this man. You don't understand: Willie was
a salesman. And for a salesman, there is no rock bot-
tom to the life. He don't put a bolt to a nut, he don't
tell you the law or give you medicine. He's a man
way out there in the blue, riding on a smile and a
shoeshine. And when they start not smiling back —
that's an earthquake. And then you get yourself a
couple of spots on your hat, and you're finished. No-
body dost blame this man. A salesman is got to dream,
boy. It comes with the territory.
Biff: Charley, the man didn't know who he was.
Happy, infuriated: Don't say that!
Biff: Why don't you come with me, Happy?
Happy: I'm not licked that easily. I'm .staying
right in this city, and I'm gonna beat this racket! (He
looks at Biff, his chin set.) The Loman Brothers!
Biff: I know who I am, kid.
Happy: All right, boy. I'm gonna show you and
everybody else that Willie Loman did not die in vain.
He had a good dream. It's the only dream you can
have — to come out number one man. He fought it
out here, and this is where I'm gonna win it for him.3
6 » «
It looks, like Happy, the younger son, is already on
the way to become an extension of his father, whereas
Biff has fully recognized the false pride and wrong sense
of value that swallowed up this small man, Willie Low-
man, in a world of sham.
We find a very similar situation in one of his earlier
plays, All My Sons, for which he received the Drama
Critic's Circle Award in 1947.4 Here again we find a
father-son conflict, that eventually leads to the suicide of
Joe Keller, the father. Joe was supposedly molded after
Arthur Miller's grandfather and one cannot help but
wonder again, whether Chris Keller, the son who returned
from the war, a true idealist, who stands for all that is
3 Arthur Miller, ARTHUR MILLERS COLLECTED PLAYS,
(New York, 1957), pp. 221-222.
4 "Arthur Miller" ENCYCLOPEDIA AMERICANA, 1961, Vol. 19. 117.
22
good and honest, is the personification of a man, the
author would like to be or possibly thinks, he is. The
Contrast between father and son is again extreme, Joe
Keller being a man completely ruled by love for his
family, always in search for the almighty dollar and
finally committing a crime he blames his partner for, all
in order to provide comfort and security for his dear
ones and never realizing the terrible harm he had done.
Arthur Miller deals superbly with serious subjects.
Any matter he writes about, gains dramatic intensity by
the way, he analyzes the conflicts within each individal.5
Being a very sensitive, brooding individual himself, he
always strives to present either social, political or econ-
omic pressures in his plays and he does this for a very
personal reason. We could easily find many very similar
situations to the stories he tells us about, in the story of
his own life. Let us take a closer look, therefore, into
Arthur Miller's Biography, so that we may learn some-
thing about the make-up of this man, who can certainly
be classified as one of the most important, contemporary
playwrights.
Arthur Miller was born in New York City on the
seventeenth of October, nineteen fifteen and grew up
during the difficult days of the depression era. He admit-
tedly was a very poor student at public school and read
his first weighty book at the age of seventeen-6 Undoubt-
edly we find the image of his father, Isadore Miller, in
many of his fatherly characters. Isadore Miller was a
successful shopowner until the slump and in addition to
Arthur, had an older son, Kermit and a daughter, Joan,
six years young than Arthur.
Arthur graduated from High School in 1922 but had
to work for two years in an automobile-parts warehouse
to earn his tuition for college. Incidentally, this is exactly
what Bert does in A Memory of Two Mondays, an early
play, for which Miller seems to have a special fondness.7
After entering the University of Michigan, where he
studied economics and history, his writing ability was
quickly recognized and he soon received the Avery Hop-
wood Award in drama with his first play.8 He literally
worked his way through college by working as night
editor of the Michigan Daily News and was only able to
complete his course with financial aid from the National
Youth Administration.9 The image of the struggling,
young writer, who finally reaches success under difficult
circumstances, very quickly caught the imagination of the
American public and most of the articles about Miller
mention the fact that he has done such menial, diversi-
fied jobs working in a box factory while writing radio
plays, being a shipfitters' helper in a Brooklyn Navy
Yard, holding such tiring jobs as truckdriver, waiter and
crewman on a tanker. Even now, it is said, he spends a
few weeks each year working in a factory, so he will
remember what it feels like to stand on one's feet in
one place eight hours a day.10
He joined the Federal Theater Project, after graduat-
ing from College, but before his plays could be produced,
the project closed down, because of improved economic
5 Ibid., p. 117.
6 Stanley J. Kunitz, TWENTIETH CENTURY AUTHORS, I. Suppl.
New York. The H. W. Wilson Co., 1955, p. 669.
7 Dennis Welland. ARTHUR MILLER, (New York, 1961) p. 4.
8 Ibid., p. 5.
9 Ibid., p. 4.
10 Ibid., p. 5.
conditions in America. Success didn't come easy at all;
his first play The Man Who Had All the Luck was with-
drawn after only four performances on Broadway.11
However, Arthur Miller's great, dramatic talent is
finally recognized, when his play All My Sons wins the
Drama Critic's Prize for the Best Play of the Season of
1947 and it was shortly thereafter made into a fine
motion picture. In 1949, his Death of a Salesman, in
many opinions his greatest achievement to date, wins
again the Drama Critic's Award, as well as the Puiltzer
Prize and the Antoinette Perry Award.
In 1953, Miller writes a very controversial play
about the witchcraft in Salem, Massachusetts in the year
of 1962, The Crucible. It deals with organized tyranny
and its message of the final moral victory of truth, after
its defeat of the ideal is indeed masterfully pointed out.
The play was considered inferior to his previous efforts
by many contemporary critics, but one of them, J. Mason
Brown, pointed out, that Miller's plays were always about
something important that really matters12 and that The
Crucible was no exception. It deals with the liberty
of man's conscience and his right to express his convic-
tions and opinions. The play was also made into a French
movie by the renowned, pinkish writer and producer,
Jean Paul Sartre in 1955.
It was rather obvious, that Miller was criticizing
the activities of the House Committee on Un-American
Activities headed by the late Senator McCarthy and it
came to no one's surprise, when he himself was put on
their blacklist by refusing to name friends, that had leftist
leanings. He was held in contempt and he couldn't for-
give his close friend, Elia Kazan, for turning informer
at the time.13 Not until the event of the opening of the
Lincoln Center was their friendship resumed again. Inci-
dentally, in his last play, After the Fall, we find a
Kazan-like character sharply drawn within its pages.
In the play, The Crucible, the victims are com-
pletely vindicated after twenty years and the government
tries to make restitutions. Miller most certainly expresses
his own hopes for a twentieth century parallel, as he
viewed McCarthyism. It looks, now, as if his opinions
have been partially upheld. Certainly the senator exited
from the stage of life under dubious and inglorious cir-
cumstances. His follows never could equal his vicious
attacks against free thinking individuals. The latter may
have been wrong in their beliefs and ideals, but there
were other methods available to educate them than
McCarthy's venomous smears.
Arthur Miller's absence from the scene of the Amer-
ican Theater for almost nine years was partially blamed
on this brush with the House Committee and partially
on his turbulent marriage with one of America's Sex-
godesses, the tragic and beautiful Marilyn Monroe. As
we will later see, he deals with this particular phase of
his life dramatically in his latest play, After thet Fall,
which certain critics have called Arthur Miller's "Moral
Striptease."14
11 Ibid., p. 7.
12 Kuntz, p. 670.
13 Newsweek, p. 52.
14 "Marilyn's Ghost takes the stage" LIFE, February 7, 1964,
Vol. 56, p. 64 C.
2nd Ed. London: Barrie and Rockliff, 1960, p. 202.
23
Certainly one cannot call Miller a particularly prolific
writer; he obviously believes in quality rather than in
quantity. His few plays are carefully wrought and the
character polished to perfection in exactly the right set-
tings, just like beautiful diamonds are made to sparkle.
He is primarily a writer of plays, although he did try
his hand in writing several novels, the outstanding of
which is "Focus," written in 1945, which deals with Anti-
Semitism. Miller, being of Jewish origin himself, naturally
felt every strongly about the issue and voices his personal
opinion throughout the book.
The theater, to Miller, is a place in which to share
truth15 and it is fortunate for the audinence, that his
catharses always happen to turn into fascinating and
interesting fare. Except for The Crucible, where the
theme is much more important than the characters,16 he
peoples his plays with persons, who are very close to
him, friends, relatives, wives and many times these images
carry his own identity, as I pointed out before- He is
now riding the topcrest of his success, has a new wife,
a new baby-son (he had two sons by his first wife, from
whom he was divorced) and is one of the foremost and
most extolled writers in America. So much for Arthur
Miller, the man. Now let us consider Quentin, the hero
of his latest play, After the Fall, whose similiarity to
the author is quite striking.
The plot is an almost clinical account of Miller's
own life, using different names.17 Quentin, a young
lawyer, is wracked with selfdoubt as to his worth as a
human being, after two unsuccessful marriages. He is
contemplating trying marriage once more, the foreign
born Holga being the object of his affection. In a
spectacular setting of circular platforms of different levels,
especially built as a permanent part of the stage, he
recalls his past life and the audience sees his thoughts
and dreams come to life, as he tells his story.
He had grown up in a loving home, complete with
a doting mother, who spoiled him. Here we have pos-
sibly the reason, why he constantly craves to be odored
by women. Being idealistically inclined and wanting to
help "save" the world, he becomes involved in poiltics.
His first marriage is a complete failure. He seems so
preoccupied with his own, idealistic thoughts, that he
often ignores the presence of his wife, who leaves him
before long. She finds him empty of feeling, not realizing
that here is a man obsessed with extraordinarily high
principles. His lofty feelings, however, seem never ready
for ordinary needs.18 In these early passages we can
already recognize Miller's self revelation and schizoid role
in the character of Quentin.19 He frankly admits his own
guilt for the breakup of his first marriage and confesses,
that his sins were more sins of omission than of commis-
sion. Certainly, after recalling his background, one senses,
that his feelings are identical with his leading character.
The role of Quentin, incidentally, is the longest in the
annals of theatrical history since Hamlet. Miller sets
the mood of his play in his foreword, where he states:
"To perceive somehow our own complicity with evil is
a horror not to be borne." He is rather longwinded in the
16 Frederik Lumley, TRENDS IN TWENTIETH CENTURY DRAMA,
2nd Ed. London: Barrie and Rockliff, 1960, pp. 202.
17 "After the Fall" Text by Arthur Miller, SATURDAY EVENING
POST, February 1, 1964, pp. 32-58.
18 Life, 64 B.
19 Newsweek, p. 51.
opening scene, because he likes to delve completely into
the background and motives of his characters- Many
critics are comparing Miller to the great Norwegian
writer, Henrik Ibsen, who used similar means to create
his unforgettable characters.
In the play, Quentin's second wife is the beautiful
Maggie, a living counterpart of the aforementioned
Marilyn Monroe. Maggie has lived through a wretched
childhood. Her appearance on stage recalls immediately
the golden image of the Monroe character. Marilyn
herself was the product of unwed parents, was raised in
a string of loveless foster homes and became miraculously
one of the nation's adored Love-goddesses. As Maggie
in the play, she considers herself a public joke and her
charitable contribution to humanity consists of giving the
one thing she is so amply supplied with: Sex. At this
point one senses, that Miller is laying the groundwork
for his later defense to the question as to why this mar-
riage failed. After all, who could blame a man, sensitive
and with high ideals, for not being able to accept such
an attitude in the woman who bears his name?
Maggie's faults are truly petty and childish. She is
completely inconsistent, extremely vain, petulant, and
becomes more and more shrewish, as her fame increases.21
She claims to have a great love for people in general, but
abuses them at every opportunity. When Quentin pro-
poses marriage, she can hardly believe his earnestness and
on the day of their wedding she offers him another chance
to reconsider and back out. She obviously considers her-
self vastly inferior to his great intellect.
The marriage turns into a very unhappy affair. At
every opportunity, Maggie claws at Quentin and yet
clings to him and demands complete attention and con-
centration on her person. She shows symptoms of a
tendency towards selfdestruction and finally tries to com-
mit suicide. Quentin saves her life this time and many
other times thereafter. His work suffers and he neglects
his own affairs completely, as he seems to devote his
life watching over Maggie and her suicidal tendencies.
In these passages, of course, we hear Miller crying out
to humanity for a better understanding and more sym-
pathy of this trying time in his own life.
One cannot doubt that Quentin is the true voice
of Arthur Miller. Many critics even go so far as to say,
that the playwright has completely thrown away his
human right to privacy. The play is a startling dissection
of a man's soul and marrow.22 Through Quentin, the
author confesses to a tremendous sense of guilt, as he
confesses a certain sense of relief, when Maggie (or
Marilyn?) tries to end her life. In the play, Quentin
wrenches the pills from her hand and prevents her from
being successful in her attempt. Yet he cannot help but
think of the freedom that had beckoned. This thought
of his haunts him and he gives way sometimes to hysteria
himself and actually once attempts to strangle her, when
she accuses him of an inability to love. He, who has
always claimed to have loved his dear ones, his father,
mother, friends, his wives, suddenly be comes aware that
he had actually given them up willingly to possible failure,
so that he might live and succeed. He realizes that he
did this under the label of love and in this realization —
21 Ibid., p. 64 B.
22 Newsweek, p. 49.
24
after the fall — he asks, if there is forgiveness, if there
is light ahead. At this stage he also airs his feelings of
a deep sense of personal guilt, when he considers the
mass-murder of the six million Jewish people under the
Hitler regime. He, as a member of the human race,
together with all others, feels a tremendous impact of this
man's inhumanity to Man.23 Yet, at the same time, he
feels a distinct measure of separation from the rest of
humanity, a feeling, which keeps him from truly loving,
crying, even grieving. And while Maggie hides behind
barbiturates and booze, so as not to have to face her
continuous unhappiness, Quentin beats and pounds his
chest, condemning himself, full of guiltfeelings and be-
wailing the fact, that he can't find himself- Still, one
cannot help but wonder: Does Quentin, or rather Miller,
really mean this feeling of remorse? Shakespeare said:
"Me thinks, thou protests too much!" It rather seems,
that Miller, by confessing all these guiltfeelings, is accus-
ing society at large as to what has happened and probably
feels a sense of relief for having opened his soul to the
audience.
The play ends with a rather hopeful note, as Quentin
decides to pick up the threads of his life and attempts
to try again anew. He discovers his true beliefs and gains
new insight as to his real nature. He wants to face life
squarely again and hopes, as he goes on, to gain new
courage with each day.24 He prepares to marry Holga,
the foreigner, who has given him new hope for the future.
Holga is another obvious counterpart to photographer
Inge Morath, his present, foreignborn wife.
So concludes the trial of a man by his own con-
science, by his own values and deeds.
As we have dissected some of Arthur Miller's charac-
ters, we have clearly recognized his relationship and
personal involvement with some of their parallels in real
life. Certainly his own voice speaks, when we listen to
Chrsi Keller in All My Sons, to young Biff Lowman in
his great Death of a Salesman, Proctor, the erring
husband with such great feeling of remorse in The
Crucible and possibly even Eddie, the strong, upright
longshoreman with unholy feeling towards his young,
beautiful sister in law, who dies in the attempt to white-
wash his longings in another fascinating Miller trgedy
A View from the Bridge. Above all, we hear his voice
through his latest hero, Quentin, in After the Fall.
We find the personality of his grandfather projected
into the character of Joe Keller in All My Sons, his
father is certainly found in tragic Willie Lowman, prob-
ably his mother, that idealized, beloved image of his
childhood, is portrayed in Linda Lowman, Willie's wife.
In the story of the fanatical witchhunt ("The Crucible")
Danforth and Hawthorne, the avenging magistrate and his
underling, are obvious counterparts of the McCarthy-Cohn
team of the Anti-Communist Congressional Hearing in
the late forties and early fifties. No one can mistake
goldenhaired Maggie for anyone but Miller's second wife,
Marilyn Monroe. Since her death occurred only a little
over two short years ago, it seems almost indecent and
rather shocking to watch the revelations on stage some-
times. This is the extent to which the character of Maggie
is drawn towards reality in this last play of his.
23 Ibid., p. 51.
24 Life, p. 64 B.
Arthur Miller's wanting to relate to his audience is
beautifully described by himself in his introduction to his
"Collected Plays":
» o o
A play, I think, ought to make sense to common-
sense people. I know what it is to be rejected by them,
even unfairly so, but the only challenge worth the
effort is the widest one and the tallest one, which is
the people themselves. It is their innate conservatism
which, I think, is and ought to be the barrier to excess
in experiment and the exploitation of the bizarre, even
as it is the proper aim of drama to break down the
limits of conventional unawareness and acceptance of
outmoded and banal forms.
By whatever means it is accomplished, the prime
business of a play is to arouse the passion of its audi-
ence so that by the route of passion may be opened up
new relationships between a man and men, and be-
tween men and Man. Drama is akin to the other inven-
tions of man in that it ought to help us to know more,
and not merely to spend our feelings.
At this point of his life, Arthur Miller, with the
writing of After the Fall and his complete identification
with its leading character, has completed a circle of per-
sonal involvement in his plays. It will be interesting to
note, now that Miller has "confessed" all of his innermost
feelings, if his immense talents will guide him to more
abstract subjects. If his life and his loves will run more
smoothly from now on, he may very well have to look
towards more distant fields for some models of the char-
acters in some future plays. No matter what subject
Arthur Miller will decide to write about, we can be
certain of one aspect: It will undoubtedly be about
something that really matters!
BIBLIOGRAPHY
"After the Fall," Arthur Millers Return. NEWSWEEK, February 3,
1964, Vol LXIII, pp. 49-52.
"After the Fall," Text by Arthur Miller, SATURDAY EVENING POST,
February 1, 1964, pp. 32-58.
"Arthur Miller," ENCYCLOPEDIA AMERICANA, Vol. 19, p. 117.
Kunitz, Stanley J., TWENTIETH CENTURY AUTHORS, New York:
The H. W. Wilson Co., 1955, 1. Suppl. pp. 669-670.
Lewis, Allan. THE CONTEMPORARY THEATER, New York: Crown
Publishers Inc. 1862, pp. 282-303.
Lumley, Frederik. TRENDS IN TWENTIETH CENTURY DRAMA,
2nd Ed. London: Barrie & Rockliff, 1960, pp. 192-203.
"Marilyn's Ghost takes the stage." LIFE, February 7, 1964.
Vol. 56, pp. A-66.
Miller, Arthur. ARTHUR MILLER'S COLLECTED PLAYS, New York:
Viking Press, 1957.
Welland, Dennis. ARTHUR MILLER, New York: Grove Press Inc. 1961.
25
MU
Gary A. Hogle
I awakened, and there was darkness. I listened, but
I could hear no sound. I sought to speak, and there was
only silence. I stretched my hand for a familiar object, but
I had no feeling. My mind struggled to remember the
past, there were no memories. I could not clearify my
thoughts for the future; I could only grasp the present.
My heart ached with grief, the numbness of my feelings
subsided, and tears began to pour forth in a turbulent
stream of anguish.
There was the sound of wind, the thunderous roar
of the sea crashing upon the shore, a taste of wine upon
my lips; and a soft hand touched my brow. A dank, cold
gust of stagnant air swept around me, and my lungs
gasped for relief. I heard the cries of a multitude of
birds, the gentle rustle of feathered bodies, the caress
of down upon my cheek; and I began to soar upward,
upon the silvery rays of the moon.
26
APOCALYPSE
Trent Evans
The earth is wracked by ruin
Mankind, save one, is gone
And he from whom all souls were hewn
Shall pass in death with coming dawn.
His eyes shall sweep the barren plain
His gaze shall linger on the sea
Upon his earth once scourged by pain
Rests peace for all eternity.
From that lone crest he begs for death
Man's every dream has flown
Thus he partakes the dying breath
Heaven and earth now stand alone.
Perhaps someday an eye shall see
An earth mature and grown
A world where man and God are free
Where sin and death will not be known.
ANGEL'S HEART
Thomas Wright
Into the vast black abyss
That is night
Descends a heart divine
Which found no promise
Of new life
While below, lovers catch
Their breath in wonder
And gaze upon the
Falling star.
DEDICATION: TO SUCCESS
Frank Brenner
Upon the stage you're cheered and loved
Idolized and cherished
Off the stage you walk alone
Life and joy and cheers have perished.
In the dark I often wander
Searching faces endlessly
Strolling down those endless byways
Looking where I cannot see.
I well know that life is cruel
I'll see the fading of the light
But I will rise with blazing day
Before I fall to lasting night.
A WARNING
OR
LOOK BEFORE YOU LEAP
Susan Stevens
Love is like to a rose,
Lovely and soft it blooms
Unfolding from an insignificant bud
It blossoms into a beauty great.
We watch it as it grows;
It becomes greater and more lovely.
As we watch, it also begins to fade.
After its full glory blooms, it is forever gone.
Left are the thorns we could not see
for the beauty gone before
Next a love finds me
I shall look beneath, remembering
That the false splendor hides
The sting of the thorn.
SEA OF LIFE
Susan Stevens
Life's but a series of tumultuous waves upon the sea,
Pulling all but the dead in its tow.
We are caught like pebbles in the tide;
Picked up, rolled over, and dropped,
Only to be picked up again by the following roll.
Tumbling and turning through time
The pebbles are crushed, banged, and broken;
Until they are dropped upon the peaceful shores of death.
27
POEMS
Jack Pawlawski
i
A whisper: susurra
A murmer: murmura
A lover: ternura
A madness: locura.
A promise: promesa
A thicket: maleza
Dishonor:
A sadness: tristeza.
GOD WIND
Jack Pawlawski
Green waves, foaming at the mouth
as they reach for shore.
Green waves, devouring each other with cavernous bites
as they reach for shore.
Green waves, roaring like a soon-to-die bull
as they reach for shore.
Do the green waves foam because they see that death
approaches?
Do the green waves devour each other in a last frantic
attempt to protect their like from approaching death?
Do the green waves roar a prayer to God Wind to
postpone their certain death a few seconds longer?
Apology to a Latin American poet, whose poetry
was attacked on the floor of Congress and just as stoutly
defended, here and abroad.
DON'T TALK OF VIOLENCE AND DEATH
Virginia Krochmalny
IF A CAT DIES, THE BUREAU OF SANITATION
DISPATCHES A STERILE HEARSE.
THE MANGLED PATCH OF FUR vanishes
LIKE THIS AFTERNOON'S
ACCORDION-TWISTED WRECK
OF SHATTERED GLASS AND VISCERA.
Our streets are clean and orderly
while human agonies are locked
neatly behind closed doors.
There is no filth or hunger in our streets
or joy.
Warlike tanks belch clouds
of murderous insecticide
killing off larvae, pestilence
and human affection.
DON'T TALK OF SORDID UGLINESS TO US.
Distant poets singing hymns of anathema
to squalor
death
violence
disease
know better how to see
poetry in stones
than we see in willows,
better how to love
dance
honor
weep-
This is our unbearable enmity.
They are closer to their saints and death
than we are to each other.
28
POEMS
Michael Cain
Once long ago
in a forest
I knelt to pray
and was found by one
of my
brothers.
He dragged me,
squirming
into court
where I was convicted
of blaphemy
and sentenced to live
forever.
We who were put on this earth to live
have destroyed life
in the name of God.
We who were put on this earth to live
have destroyed it
and created a
credit card.
We who were told to worship God
have worshiped him
when we feared our
own creations.
We emerged from dark ages
into an enlightened
nothing
and shouted hallelujahs
to ourselves.
We were told to build life
and we built
a shell.
We were told to advance life
and we did.
Our priests passed on God's word
for a salary
and shouted hallelujahs
to themselves.
We have taken God's gifts
and passed them off
as our own.
We took God's word
and sold it
for a tremendous profit
at an unimaginable loss.
We killed God's son
and made movies
about him
and cheered our
contribution.
And when we stand before God
we will say
forgive us, lord
and shout hallelujahs
to ourselves.
AN APOLOGY TO DYLAN THOMAS
Michael Cain
Dylan, they're killing you again,
killing your soaring soul,
tearing you apart, ripping
the holy guts out of you
and yours and, God, Dylan,
who will hear the tears?
They're pulling you down,
Dylan, until they make you
another one of us and
I cry. I cry for dying
spring and for you and them.
Dylan, we bleed because
not content to kill, to unsex,
they're selling you
to redeem themselves
and Judas set the price too low.
29
STEPS TO THE TEMPLE
Bill Kern
Two steps are close set
Another, spaced and settled
Has parted erratically with itself
Making the next two seem
Standard set, out of character.
Until the temple gains view
Giving in answer added mystery
To blend, add, complete
With gentle aged balance
The mood of rhythms.
The steps answering of self
Give the temple much as gain
With no wish to use
Save for symmetry.
No total mystery then
These worn forms
Free of pretension
Steps to the temple.
THE VIEW
Bill Kern
Been raining hard
Here most of the day —
Clearing a little now.
Looks violent toward the east,
The view from the beach
Must be exciting:
The close water pressed
Smooth by the wind,
With squalls roughing the swells
Farther out by the reef.
It's the more exciting
Because I sense it,
Know it's there.
When I wade in,
Smell and taste —
The magic goes away
Replaced by a presence
Perhaps equal
But not the same.
SONG 1963
Bill Kern
How good to know
Some of you
Are upon a year
Of finding
As am I.
How often I sing
Without a word —
Of dusk and light,
Autumn and spring,
The coming sun.
How strong the need
To be a wing
Or in damp
At morning wake,
A searcher seeking.
How much can time
Be a moment's sight
Of shape, shadow cast,
In pall dawns —
A song of hope.
30
How soon these hopes
A moment revealed,
Present delight;
Recall
Silent contrasts.
How fresh the eye
At moments
Knows
A poet's thought
A dark remembered dream.
How long impressed
In damp loam,
The seedlings sprout
A crest for winter hills
In summer rain.
How light clover
New flowering
With heavy scent
Appears
Against the field.
How near I feel
To earth things
Growing free;
Patterns — dew thick,
Changed from night.
How comfortable is dawn,
A softness
At once gentle,
Freshened, expectant
Revealing day's first mood.
How deep the dawn
Of color wine,
Warm colors: sanguine
Gold and umber
Through morning clouds.
How weal is born
The freshet stream
To flow expanding,
Still; across
A vital homeland.
POEMS
Anonymous
Seventeen summers passed
In slow solemnity
And so did I
All in all
Delighted I
Ran
In
Ecstacy
Near, yet
Nowhere through
Eternity.
THE NET
Jean Clark
Crush from you the girl with golden hair
Who brings you simpleness and light
In burlap hands. Wring her arms from yours
And let her go, not pressing with your side
Her side — her woe.
Move in the world to me
Then move away.
No one, not even I, should try to hold
The poet captive in a net of gold.
How broad the limbs
Of mothers
Filled with young;
And strong,
Preparing for eventual day.
How sure my hands
Touch the sparrows,
Know their feathers
Strength of flight
And lightness.
How right to make
This life
A way of springs;
Of coming
Morning.
CONVERSION
Jean Clark
When the wild gold shatters in your eyes
And the green velvet tatters from your thighs
When wine in the chalice becomes blood
And the bread exudes malice, fire and flood
Gather broken gold and velvet thread
Weave a roughened garment for the dead
Fold yourself within and find a tomb
But leave a candle burning in your room.
31
LA MISA DE AMOR
THE MASS OF LOVE
Mananita de san Juan,
mananita de primor,
cuando damas y galanes
van a oir misa mayor.
Alia va la mi senora,
entre todas la mejor;
viste saya sobre saya,
mantellin de tornasol,
camisa con oro y perlas
bordada en el cabezdh.
En la su boca muy linda
lleva un poco de dulzor;
en la su cara tan blanca,
un poquito de arrebol,
y en los sus ojuelos garzos
lleva un poco de alcohol;
asi entraba por la iglesia
relumbrando como sol.
Las damas mueren de envidia,
y los galanes de amor.
El que cantaba en el coro,
en el credo se perdio;
el abad que dice misa,
ha trocado la licion;
monacillos que le ayudan,
no aciertan responder, non,
por, decir amen, amen,
decian amor, amor.
Sweet Midsummer's Morn
Morning of St. John's Mass
When damsels and gallants
Go to attend High Mass.
Thither goes my lady
The fairest of them all
Wearing her many skirts
And her irridescent shawl.
Her blouse of pearls and gold
Embroidered at the throat.
At her mouth so young and pretty
A shade of sweetness there is
At her cheek so fair and white
A shade of light cerise
At her eyes of deep sky blue
A shade of black al-kuhl.
Thus she entered the church
Shining like the sun.
The damsels die of envy
The gallants swoon with love.
The singer in the choir
Has forgotten all the Creed
The abbot has confused the Epistle
The choirboys, excited, cannot heed
Instead of chanting amen, amen, amen
The chant love, love, love.
Instead of chanting amen, amen, amen
The chant love, love, love.
This lovely, lyrical "romance" dates back possibly to
the reign of Jaime I of Aragon and may be an allusion
to his daughter.
Translated by
Marina Garcia Burdick
O YE TIRED SOULS
James Suguitan
The flames of the small yellowed candles
Illuminate the rambling, cracked walls of the ancient
edifice
As the fog smothers over the bogs
And seems to engulf the trees with its choking essence.
Little flashes of lightening
Now dance in the far corners of the starless sky
And from the ramparts one can see
The deserted village below.
Desolation now reigns on this island of misery
And from the stench which rises from the mangled,
maggoted bodies which lie about me,
I find my mind wandering
Trying to comprehend what evil has occurred . . .
But no matter how I try,
I'll never understand the evils of war.
32
&
THE AQUA OF LOVE
David Chira
Upon this mind, alone and tense,
Frolicking through the past, the
Timeless streams of memories'
Dreams scream upon my breasts.
We two of love and youth
Tasted the wilds of the rarest fruits.
Watched the dancing of the bubbling
Sea, and ran through shores of
Pastures green.
Oh, in youth so striking a splendor
The tides of emotions
The beauty of you.
Sigh, my love, sigh; the oceans
Have changed.
The tides have gone, and all that
Is left are the chipped shells
Of a memory.
°l
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